PRS042 

C6 

CAGE 


THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 

OF  THE  WORLD’S  BEST  BOOKS 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG 


MAN 


CONFESSIONS 
OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


By  GEORGE  MOORE 


INTRODUCTION  BY  FLOYD  DELL 


boston  college  libra** 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 


PUBLISHERS  ::  ::  NEW  YORK 


ybsdf3- 

. C.(j> 
<***• 


l(j8071 


Manufactured  in  the  United  States  of America 
Bound for  the  modern  library  by  H.  Wolff 


INTRODUCTION 


These  “Confessions  of  a Young  Man”  constitute 
one  of  the  most  significant  documents  of  the  passion- 
ate revolt  of  English  literature  against  the  Victorian 
tradition.  It  is  significant  because  it  reveals  so 
clearly  the  sources  of  that  revolt.  It  is  in  a sense  the 
history  of  an  epoch — an  epoch  that  is  just  closing. 
It  represents  one  of  the  great  discoveries  of  English 
literature : a discovery  that  had  been  made  from  time 
to  time  before,  and  that  is  now  being  made  anew  in 
our  own  generation — the  discovery  of  human  nature. 

The  reason  why  this  discovery  has  had  to  be  made 
so  often  is  that  it  shocks  people.  They  try  to  hush  it 
up ; and  they  do  succeed  in  fonretting  about  it  for  long 
periods  of  time,  ana  prexenamg  »>nac  ^ _ esu’t  exist. 
They  are  shocked  because  human  nature  is  n^n,  t all 
like  the  pretty  pictures  we  like  to  draw  of  ourselves. 
It  is  not  so  sweet,  amiable  and  gentlemanly  or  lady- 
like as  we  wish  to  believe  it.  It  is  much  more  selfish, 
brutal  and  lascivious  than  we  care  to  admit,  and  as 
such,  both  too  terrible  and  too  ridiculous  to  please 
us.  The  Elizabethans  understood  human  nature,  and 
made  glorious  comedies  and  tragedies  out  of  its  inor- 
dinate crimes  and  cruelties,  and  its  pathetic  follies 
and  fatuities.  But  people  didn’t  like  it,  and  they 
turned  Puritan  and  closed  the  theaters.  It  is  true, 
they  repented,  and  opened  them  again ; but  the  thea- 
ter had  got  a bad  name  from  which  it  is  only  now 
beginning  to  recover. 

In  the  fields  of  poetry  and  fiction  a more  long- 
drawn-out  contest  ensued  between  those  who  wanted 

via 


yin 


INTRODUCTION 


to  tell  the  truth  and  those  who  wanted  to  listen  to 
pleasant  fibs,  the  latter  generally  having  the  best  of  it. 
The  contest  finally  settled  down  into  the  Victorian 
compromise,  which  was  tacitly  accepted  by  even  the 
best  of  the  imaginative  writers  of  the  period.  The 
understanding  was  that  brutality,  lust  and  selfishness 
were  to  be  represented  as  being  qualities  only  of 
“bad”  people,  plainly  labelled  as  such.  Under  this 
compromise  some  magnificent  works  were  produced. 
But  inasmuch  as  the  compromise  involved  a suppres- 
sion of  a great  and  all-important  fact  about  the  human 
soul,  it  could  not  endure  forever.  The  only  question 
was,  under  what  influences  would  the  revolt  occur? 

It  occurred,  as  George  Moore’s  quite  typical  and 
naively  illuminating  confessions  reveal,  under  Trench 
influences.  Something  of  the  same  sort'TadHS^en 
happening  in  France,  and  the  English  rebels  found 
exemplars  of  revolt  ready  to  their  need.  These 
French  rebels  were  of  all  sorts,  and  it  was  naturally 
the  most  extreme  that  attracted  the  admiration  of 
the  English  malcontents.  Chief  among  these  were 
Gautier  and  Bauctelaire. 

Gautier  had  written  in  “Mademoiselle  de  Maupin” 
a lyrical  exaltation  of  the  joys  of  the  flesh:  he  had 
eloquently  and  unreservedly  pronounced  the  fleshly 
pleasures  good . Baudelaire  had  gone  farther:  he 
had  said  that  Evil  was  beautiful,  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world — and  proved  it,  to  those  who 
were  anxious  to  believe  it,  by  writing  beautiful  poems 
about  every  form  of  evil  that  he  could  think  of. 

They  were  still  far,  it  will  be  observed,  from  the 
sane  and  truly  revolutionary  conception  of  life  which 
has  begun  to  obtain  acceptance  in  our  day — a con- 
ception of  life  which  traverses  the  old  conceptions 
&f  “good”  and  “evil.”  Baudelaire  and  Gautier 


INTRODUCTION 


ix 


hardly  did  more  than  brilliantly  champion  the  un- 
popular side  of  a foolish  argument.  It  may  seem 
odd  to  us  today  that  such  a romantic,  not  to,  say 
hysterical,  turning-upside-down  of  current  British 
morality  could  so  deeply  impress  the  best  minds  of 
the  younger  generation  in  England.  Its  influence, 
when  mixed  with  original  genius  of  a high  quality, 
produced  the  “Poems  and  Ballads”  of  Swinburne. 
It  produced  also  The  Yellow  Book,  a more  character- 
istic and  less  happy  result.  It  produced  a whole  host 
of  freaks  and  follies.  But  it  did  contain  a liberating 
idea — the  idea  that  human  nature  is  a subject  to  be 
dealt  with,  not  to  be  concealed  and  lied  about.  And, 
among  others,  George  Moore  was  set  free — set  free 
to  write  some  of  the  sincerest  fiction  in  our  language.  , 
These  “Confessions”  reveal  him  in  the  process  of 
revaluing  the  values  of  life  and  art  for  himself.  It 
was  not  an  easy  or  a painless  process.  Destined  for 
the  army,  because  he  wasn’t  apparently  clever  enough 
to  go  in  for  the  church  or  the  law,  he  managed,  with  a 
kind  of  instinctive  self-protection,  to  avoid  learning 
enough  even  to  be  an  officer.  He  turned  first  in  this 
direction  and  then  in  that,  in  his  efforts  to  escape. 
The  race-track  furnished  one  diversion  for  his  un- 
happy  energies,  books  of  poetry  another.  Then  he 
met  a painter  who  painted  and  loved  sumptuous  and 
beautiful  blondes,  whereupon  art  and  women  became 
the  new  centers  of  his  life,  and  Paris,  where  both 
might  be  indulged  in,  his  great  ambition.  Given  per- 
mission and  an  allowance,  he  set  off  to  study  art  in 
Paris — only  to  find  after  much  effort  and  heartache 
that  he  was  a failure  as  an  artist.  There  remained* 
however,  women — and  the  cafes,  with  strange  poets 
and  personalities  to  be  cultivated  and  explored. 
Modelling  himself  after  his  newest  friend,  in  attire* 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


manners  and  morals,  lie  lived  what  might  have  been 
on  the  whole  an  unprofitable  and  ordinary  life,  if  he 
had  not  been  able  to  gild  it  with  the  glamour  of 
philosophic  immoralism.  Finally,  because  everybody 
else  was  writing,  he  too  wrote — a play.  Then  follows 
a period  of  discovery  of  the  newest  movement  in  art. 
So  impressionable  is  he  that  his  stay  of  some  years  in 
Paris  causes  him  actually  to  forget  how  to  write  Eng- 
lish prose,  and  when  he  returns  to  London  and  has  to 
earn  his  living  at  journalism  he  has  to  learn  his 
native  tongue  over  again.  Nevertheless  he  has  ac- 
quired a point  of  view — on  women,  on  art,  on  life. 
He  writes — criticism,  poetry,  fiction.  He  is  obscure, 
ambitious,  full  of  self-esteem  that  is  beginning  to  be 
soured  by  failure.  He  tries  to  get  involved  in  a duel 
with  a young  nobleman,  just  to  get  himself  before 
the  public.  Failing  in  that,  he  lives  in  squalid  lodg- 
ings— or  so  they  seem  to  a young  man  who  has  lived 
in  Paris  on  a liberal  allowance — and  writes,  writes, 
writes,  writes  . . . talking  to  his  fellow  lodgers,  to 
the  stupid  servant  who  brings  him  his  meals,  and  get- 
ting the  materials  for  future  books  out  of  them.  A 
candid  record  of  these  incidents,  interwoven  with  elo- 
quent self-analysis,  keen  and  valid  criticism  of  books 
and  pictures,  delightful  reminiscences  and  furious 
dissertations  upon  morality,  the  whole  story  is  given 
a special  and,  for  its  time,  a rare  interest  by  its  utter 
lack  of  conventional  reticence.  He  never  spares  him- 
self. He  has  undertaken  quite  honestly  to  tell  the 
truth.  He  has  learned  from  Paris  not  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself.  And  this,  though  he  had  not  realized  it, 
was  what  he  had  gone  to  Paris  to  learn. 

He  had  put  himself  instinctively  in  the  way  of  re- 
ceiving liberalizing  influences.  But  it  was,  after  all, 
an  accident  that  he  received  those  influences  from 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 

France.  He  might  conceivably  have  stayed  at  home 
and  read  Tolstoi  or  Walt  Whitman ! So  indeed  might 
the  whole  English  literary  revolt  have  taken  its  rise 
under  different  and  perhaps  happier  influences.  But 
it  happened  as  it  happened.  And  accidents  are  im- 
portant. The  accident  of  having  to  turn  to  France 
for  moral  support  colored  the  whole  English  literary 
revolt.  And  the  accident  of  going  to  Paris  colored 
vividly  the  superficial  layers  of  George  Moore’s  soul. 
This  book  partly  represents  a flaunting  of  such  bor- 
rowed colors.  It  was  the  fashion  of  the  Parisian 
diabolists  to  gloat  over  cruelty,  by  way  of  showing 
their  superiority  to  Christian  morality.  The  enjoy- 
ment of  others’  suffering  was  a splendid  pagan  virtue. 
So  George  Moore  kept  a pet  python,  and  cultivated 
paganness  by  watching  it  devour  rabbits  alive. 

It  was  the  result  of  the  same  accident  which  caused 
him  to  conclude — and  to  preach  at  some  length  in 
this  book — that  art  is  aristocratic.  It  was  the  proper 
pagan  thing  to  say,  as  he  does  here — “What  care  I 
that  some  millions  of  wretched  Israelites  died  under 
Pharaoh’s  lash  ? They  died  that  I might  have  the 
Pyramids  to  look  on” — and  other  remarks  even  more 
shocking  and  jejune.  It  was  this  accident  which 
made  him  write  ineffable  silliness  in  this  and  other 
early  volumes  about  “virtue”  and  “vice,”  assume  a 
man-about-town’s  attitude  toward  women,  and  fill 
pages  with  maudlin  phrases  about  marble,  perfumes, 
palm-trees,  blood,  lingerie,  and  moonlight.  These 
were  the  follies  of  his  teachers,  to  be  faithfully  imi- 
tated. If  he  had  first  heard  the  news  that  the  body 
is  good  from  Walt  Whitman,  or  that  the  human  soul 
contains  lust  and  cruelty  from  Tolstoi,  what  canticles 
we  should  have  had  from  George  Moore  on  the  sub- 
ject of  democracy  in  life  and  art! 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

Deeper  down,  George  Moore  was  already  wiser 
than  his  masters.  He  was  to  write  of  the  love-life  of 
Evelyn  Innes,  and  the  common  workaday  tragedy  of 
Esther  Waters,  with  a tender  and  profound  sympathy 
far  removed  from  the  sentiments  he  felt  obliged  to 
profess  here.  This  book  is  a young  man’s  attempt  to 
be  sincere.  It  is  the  story  of  a soul  struggling  to  be 
free  from  British  morality.  It  is  eloquent,  beautiful, 
and  at  times  rather  silly.  It  is  a picture  of  an  epoch. 

The  result  of  the  attempt  to  introduce  diabolism 
to  the  English  mind  is  well  known.  The  Island 
somewhat  violently  repudiated  and  denounced  the 
whole  proceedings,  as  might  have  been  expected. 
The  French  influence  waned,  and  has  now  almost 
died  out.  But  meanwhile  another  rediscovery  of 
human  nature  (to  which  the  work  of  a later  French- 
man, Remain  Holland,  has  contributed  its  due  effect) 
is  slowly  re-creating  English  literature.  Under  a 
Russian  leadership  less  romantic  than  that  of  Gautier 
and  less  “frightful”  than  that  of  Baudelaire,  with 
scientific  support  from  Freud  and  Jung,  and  with 
some  extremely  able  British  and  American  lieuten- 
ants, the  cause  of  unashamedness  appears  to  be  win- 
ning its  way  in  literature.  The  George  Moore  of 
these  Confessions  stands  to  view  as  a reckless  and 
courageous  pioneer,  a bad  strategist  but  a faithful 
soldier,  in  the  foolhardy,  disastrous  and  gallant 
Campaign  of  the  Nineties. 

Hew  York,  May  26,  1917. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


' 


- 


' 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG 
MAN 

CHAPTER  I 

MY  soul,  so  far  as  I understand  it,  has  very 
kindly  taken  colour  and  form  from  the  many 
various  modes  of  life  that  self-will  and  an  im- 
petuous temperament  have  forced  me  to  indulge  in. 
Therefore  I may  say  that  I am  free  from  original 
qualities,  defects,  tastes,  etc.  What  I have  I ac- 
quire, or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  chance  bestowed, 
and  still  bestows,  upon  me.  I came  into  the  world 
apparently  with  a nature  like  a smooth  sheet  of  wax, 
bearing  no  impress,  but  capable  of  receiving  any ; of 
being  moulded  into  all  shapes.  Nor  am  I exag- 
gerating when  I say  I think  that  I might  equally 
have  been  a Pharaoh,  an  ostler,  a pimp,  an  arch- 
bishop, and  that  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  duties  of 
each  a certain  measure  of  success  would  have, been 
mine.  I have  felt  the  goad  of  many  impulses,  I have 
hunted  many  a trail;  when  one  scent  failed  another 
was  taken  up,  and  pursued  with  the  pertinacity  of 
an  instinct,  rather  than  the  fervour  of  a reasoned 
conviction.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  there  came  mo 

1 


2 CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


ments  of  weariness,  of  despondency,  but  they  were 
not  enduring:  a word  spoken,  a book  read,  or  yield- 
ing to  the  attraction  of  environment,  I was  soon  off 
in  another  direction,  forgetful  of  past  failures.  In- 
tricate, indeed,  was  the  labyrinth  of  my  desires;  all 
lights  were  followed  with  the  same  ardour,  all  cries 
were  eagerly  responded  to : they  came  from  the  right, 
they  came  from  the  left,  from  every  side.  But  one 
cry  was  more  persistent,  and  as  the  years  passed  I 
learned  to  fo]low  it  with  increasing  vigour,  and  my 
strayings  grew  fewer  and  the  way  wider. 

I was  eleven  years  old  when  I first  heard  and 
obeyed  this  cry,  or,  shall  I say,  echo-augury  ? 

Scene : A great  family  coach,  drawn  by  two  pow- 
erful country  horses,  lumbers  along  a narrow  Irish 
road.  The  ever  recurrent  signs — long  ranges  of 
hlue  mountains,  the  streak  of  bog,  the  rotting  cabin, 
the  flock  of  plover  rising  from  the  desolate  water. 
Inside  the  coach  there  are  two  children.  They  are 
smart,  with  new  jackets  and  neckties;  their  faces 
are  pale  with  sleep,  and  the  rolling  of  the  coach 
makes  them  feel  a little  sick.  It  is  seven  o’clock  in 
the  morning.  Opposite  the  children  are  their  par- 
ents, and  they  are  talking  of  a novel  the  world  is 
reading.  Did  Lady  Audley  murder  her  husband? 
Lady  Audley!  What  a beautiful  name;  and  she, 
who  is  a slender,  pale,  fairy-like  woman,  killed  her 
husband.  Such  thoughts  flash  through  the  boy’s 
mind ; his  imagination  is  stirred  and  quickened,  and 
he  begs  for  an  explanation.  The  coach  lumbers 
along,  it  arrives  at  its  destination,  and  Lady  Audley 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  3 


is  forgotten  in  the  delight  of  tearing  down  fruit  trees 
and  killing  a cat. 

But  when  we  returned  home  I took  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  stealing  the  novel  in  question.  I read  it 
eagerly,  passionately,  vehemently.  I read  its  suc- 
cessor and  its  successor.  I read  until  I came  to  a 
book  called  “The  Doctor’s  Wife” — a lady  who  loved 
Shelley  and  Byron.  There  was  magic,  there  was 
revelation  in  the  name,  and  Shelley  became  my  soul’s 
divinity.  Why  did  I love  Shelley  ? Why  was  I not 
attracted  to  Byron  ? I cannot  say.  Shelley ! Oh, 
that  crystal  name,  and  his  poetry  also  crystalline. 
I must  see  it,  I must  know  him.  Escaping  from  the 
schoolroom,  I ransacked  the  library,  and  at  last  my 
ardour  was  rewarded.  The  book — a small  pocket 
edition  in  red  boards,  no  doubt  long  out  of  print — 
opened  at  the  “Sensitive  Plant.”  Was  I disap- 
pointed? I think  I had  expected  to  understand 
better ; but  I had  no  difficulty  in  assuming  that  I was 
satisfied  and  delighted.  And  henceforth  the  little; 
volume  never  left  my  pocket,  and  I read  the  dazzling 
stanzas  by  the  shores  of  a pale  green  Irish  lake,  com- 
prehending little,  and  loving  a great  deal.  Byron, 
too,  was  often  with  me,  and  these  poets  were  the 
ripening  influence  of  years  otherwise  merely  nervous 
and  boisterous. 

And  my  poets  were  taken  to  school,  because  it 
pleased  me  to  read  “Queen  Mab”  and  “Cain,”  amid 
the  priests  and  ignorance  of  a hateful  Roman  Catho- 
lic college.  And  there  my  poets  saved  me  from 
intellectual  savagery;  for  I was  incapable  at  that 


4 CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


time  of  learning  anything.  What  determined  and 
incorrigible  idleness!  I used  to  gaze  fondly  on  a 
book,  holding  my  head  between  my  hands,  and  allow 
my  thoughts  to  wander  far  into  dreams  and  thin 
imaginings.  Neither  Latin,  nor  Greek,  nor  French, 
nor  History,  nor  English  composition  could  I learn, 
unless,  indeed,  my  curiosity  or  personal  interest  was 
•xcited, — then  I made  rapid  strides  in  that  branch 
of  knowledge  to  which  my  attention  was  directed. 
A mind  hitherto  dark  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  clear, 
and  it  remained  clear  and  bright  enough  so  long  as 
passion  was  in  me;  but  as  it  died,  so  the  mind 
clouded,  and  recoiled  to  its  original  obtuseness. 
Couldn’t,  with  wouldn’t,  was  in  my  case  curiously 
involved;  nor  have  I in  this  respect  ever  been  able 
to  correct  my  natural  temperament.  I have  always 
remained  powerless  to  do  anything  unless  moved  by 
a powerful  desire. 

The  natural  end  to  such  schooldays  as  mine  was 
expulsion.  I was  expelled  when  I was  sixteen,  for 
idleness  and  general  worthlessness.  I returned  to 
a wild  country  home,  where  I found  my  father  en- 
V gaged  in  training  racehorses.  For  a nature  of  such 
intense  vitality  as  mine,  an  ambiHon^aiT aspiration 
of  some  sort  was  necessary;  and  I now,  as  I have 
often  done  since,  accepted  the  first  ideal  to  hand.  In 
l this  instance  it  was  the  stable . I was  given  a hunter, 
I rode  to  hounds  every  week,  I rode  gallops  every 
morning,  I read  the  racing  calendar,  stud-book,  latest 
betting,  and  looked  forward  with  enthusiasm  to  the 
day  when  I should  be  known  as  a successful  steeple- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  5 


chase  rider.  To  ride  the  winner  of  the  Liverpool 
seemed  to  me  a final  achievement  and  glory;  and 
had  not  accident  intervened,  it  is  very  possible  that 
I might  have  succeeded  in  carrying  off,  if  not  the 
meditated  honour,  something  scarcely  inferior,  such 
as — alas,  eheu  fugaces!  I cannot  now  recall  the 
name  of  a race  of  the  necessary  value  and  impor- 
tance. About  this  time  my  father  was  elected  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament ; our  home  was  broken  up,  and  we 
went  to  London.  But  an  ideal  set  up  on  its  pedestal 
is  not  easily  displaced,  and  I persevered  in  my  love, 
despite  the  poor  promises  London  life  held  out  for 
its  ultimate  attainment;  and  surreptitiously  I con- 
tinued to  nourish  it  with  small  bets  made  in  a small 
tobacconist’s.  Well  do  I remember  that  shop,  the 
oily-faced,  sandy-whiskered  proprietor,  his  betting- 
book,  the  cheap  cigars  along  the  counter,  the  one-eyed 
nondescript  who  leaned  his  evening  away  against  the 
counter,  and  was  supposed  to  know  some  one  who 

knew  Lord ’s  footman,  and  the  great  man  often 

spoken  of,  but  rarely  seen — he  who  made  “a  two- 
’undred  pound  book  on  the  Derby” ; and  the  constant 
coming  and  going  of  the  cabmen — “Half  an  ounce  of 
shag,  sir.”  I was  then  at  a military  tutor’s  in  the 
Euston  Road ; for,  in  answer  to  my  father’s  demand 
as  to  what  occupation  I intended  to  pursue,  I had 
consented  to  enter  the  army.  In  my  heart  I knew 
that  when  it  came  to  the*  point  I should  refuse — the 
idea  of  military  discipline  was  very  repugnant,  and 
the  possibility  of  an  anonymous  death  on  a battle- 
field could  not  be  accepted  by  so  self-conscious  a 


6 CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


youth,  by  one  so  full  of  his  own  personality.  I said 
Yes  to  my  father,  because  the  moral  courage  to  say 
No  was  lacking,  and  I put  my  trust  in  the  future,  as 
well  I might,  for  a fair  prospect  of  idleness  lay  be- 
fore me,  and  the  chance  of  my  passing  any  examina- 
tion was,  indeed,  remote. 

In  London  I made  the  acquaintance  of  a great 
blonde  man,  who  talked  incessantly  about  beautiful 
women,  and  painted  them  sometimes  larger  than  life, 
in  somnolent  attitudes,  and  luxurious  tints.  His 
studio  was  a welcome  contrast  to  the  spitting  and 
betting  of  the  tobacco  shop.  His  pictures — Dore- 
like  improvisations,  devoid  of  skill,  and,  indeed,  of 
artistic  perception,  save  a certain  sentiment  for  the 
grand  and  noble — filled  me  with  wonderment  and 
awe.  “How  jolly  it  would  be  to  be  a painter,”  I 
once  said,  quite  involuntarily.  “Why,  would  you  like 
to  be  a painter  ?”  he  asked  abruptly.  I laughed,  not 
suspecting  that  I had  the  slightest  gift,  as  indeed 
was  the  case,  but  the  idea  remained  in  my  mind,  and 
soon  after  I began  to  make  sketches  in  the  streets 
and  theatres.  My  attempts  were  not  very  successful, 
but  they  encouraged  me  to  tell  my  father  that  I 
would  go  to  the  military  tutor  no  more,  and  he  al- 
lowed me  to  enter  the  Kensington  Museum  as  an  Art 
student.  There,  of  course,  I learned  nothing,  and, 
from  a merely  Art  point  of  view,  I had  much  better 
have  continued  my  sketches  in  the  streets;  but  the 
museum  was  a beautiful  and  beneficent  influence,  and 
one  that  applied  marvellously  well  to  the  besetting 
danger  of  the  moment;  for  in  the  galleries  I met 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  7 


young  men  who  spoke  of  other  things  than  betting 
and  steeplechase  riding,  who,  I remember,  it  was 
clear  to  me  then,  looked  to  a higher  ideal  than  mine, 
breathed  a-pLurer  atmosphere  of  thought  than  I.  And 
then  the  sweet,  white  peace  of  antiquity ! The  great, 
calm  gaze  that  is  not  sadness  nor  joy,  but  something 
that  we  know  not  of,  which  is  lost  to  the  world  for 
ever. 

“But  if  you  want  to  be  a painter  you  must  go  to 
France — France  is  the  only  school  of  Art.”  I must 
again  call  attention  to  the  phenomenon  of  echo- 
augury,  that  is  to  say,  words  heard  in  an  unlooked- 
for  quarter,  that,  without  an  appeal  to  our  reason, 
impel  belief.  France!  The  word  rang  in  my  ears 
and  gleamed  in  my  eyes.  France!  All  my  senses 
sprang  from  sleep  like  a crew  when  the  man  on  the 
look-out  cries,  “Land  ahead !”  Instantly  I knew  I 
should,  that  I must,  go  to  France,  that  I would  live 
there,  that  I would  become  as  a Frenchman.  I knew 
not  when  nor  how,  but  I knew  I should  go  to 
France.  ... 


Then  my  father  died,  and  I suddenly  found  myself 
heir  to  considerable  property — some  three  or  four 
thousands  a year;  and  then  I knew  that  I was  free 
to  enjoy  life  as  I pleased;  no  further  trammels,  no 
further  need  of  being  a soldier,  of  being  anything  but 
myself;  eighteen,  with  life  and  France  before  me! 
But  the  spirit  did  not  move  me  yet  to  leave  home. 
I would  feel  the  pulse  of  life  at  home  before  I felt 
it  abroad.  I would  hire  a studio.  A studio — tap- 
estries, smoke,  models,  conversations.  But  here  it 


8 CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


is  difficult  not  to  convey  a false  impression.  I fain 
would  show  my  soul  in  these  pages,  like  a face  in  a 
pool  of  clear  water;  and  although  my  studio  was  in 
truth  no  more  than  an  amusement,  and  a means  of 
effectually  throwing  over  all  restraint,  I did  not  view 
it  at  all  in  this  light.  My  love  of  Art  was  very  genu- 
ine and  deep-rooted;  the  tobacconist’s  betting-book 
was  now  as  nothing,  and  a certain  Botticelli  in  the 
National  Gallery  held  me  in  tether.  And  when  I 
look  back  and  consider  the  past,  I am  forced  to  admit 
that  I might  have  grown  up  in  less  fortunate  cir- 
cumstances, for  even  the  studio,  with  its  dissipa- 
tions— and  they  were  many — was  not  unserviceable ; 
it  developed  the  natural  man,  who  educates  himself, 
who  allows  his  mind  to  grow  and  ripen  under  the 
sun  and  wind  of  modem  life,  in  contra-distinction 
to  the  University  man,  who  is  fed  upon  the  dust  of 
ages,  and  after  a formula  which  has  been  composed 
to  suit  the  requirements  of  the  average  human  being. 

Nor  was  my  reading  at  this  time  so  limited  as 
might  be  expected  from  the  foregoing.  The  study  of 
Shelley’s  poetry  had  led  me  to  read  pretty  nearly  all 
the  English  lyric  poets;  Shelley’s  atheism  had  led 
me  to  read  Kant,  Spinoza,  Godwin,  Darwin  and  Mill ; 
and  these,  again,  in  their  turn,  introduced  me  to 
many  writers  and  various  literature.  I do  not  think 
that  at  this  time  I cared  much  for  novel  reading. 
Scott  seemed  to  me  on  a par  with  Burke’s  speeches ; 
that  is  to  say,  too  impersonal  for  my  very  personal 
taste.  Dickens  I knew  by  heart,  and  “Bleak  House” 
I thought  his  greatest  achievement.  Thackeray  left 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  9 


no  deep  impression  on  my  mind;  in  no  way  did  he 
hold  my  thoughts.  He  was  not  picturesque  like 
Dickens,  and  I was  at  that  time  curiously  eager  for 
some  adequate  philosophy  of  life,  and  his  social 
satire  seemed  very  small  beer  indeed.  I was  really 
young.  I hungered  after  great  truths:  “Middle- 
march,”  “Adam  Bede,”  “The  Rise  and  Fall  of  Ra- 
tionalism,” “The  History  of  Civilisation,”  were  mo- 
mentous events  in  my  life.  But  I loved  life  better  j 
than  books,  and  I cultivated  with  care  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a neighbour  who  had  taken  the  Globe  The' 
atre  for  the  purpose  of  producing  Offenbach’s  operas,  j 
Bouquets,  stalls,  rings,  delighted  me.  I was  not  I 

dissipated,  but  I loved  the  abnormal.  I loved  to 
spend  as  much  on  scent  and  toilette  knick-knacks  as 
would  keep  a poor  man’s  family  in  affluence  for  ten 
months ; and  I smiled  at  the  fashionable  sunlight  in 
the  Park,  the  dusty  cavalcades ; and  I loved  to  shock 
my  friends  by  bowing  to  those  whom  I should  not 
bow  to;  above  all,  the  life  of  the  theatres,  that  life 
of  raw  gaslight,  whitewashed  walls,  of  light,  dog- 
gerel verse,  slangy  polkas  and  waltzes,  interested  me 
beyond  legitimate  measure,  so  curious  and  unreal 
did  it  seem.  I lived  at  home,  but  dined  daily  at  a 
fashionable  restaurant;  at  half -past  eight  I was  at 
the  theatre.  Nodding  familiarly  to  the  doorkeeper, 

I passed  up  the  long  passage  to  the  stage.  After- 
wards supper.  Cremome  and  the  Argyle  Rooms  were 
my  favourite  haunts.  My  mother  suffered,  and  ex- 
pected ruin,  for  I took  no  trouble  to  conceal  any- 
thing; I boasted  of  dissipations.  But  there  was  no 


10  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


need  for  fear;  I was  naturally  endowed  with  a very 
clear  sense  indeed  of  self-preservation;  I neither 
betted  nor  drank,  nor  contracted  debts,  nor  a secret 
marriage;  from  a worldly  point  of  view,  I was  a 
model  young  man  indeed ; and  when  I returned  home 
about  four  in  the  morning,  I watched  the  pale  moon 
setting,  and  repeating  some  verses  of  Shelley,  I 
thought  how  I should  go  to  Paris  when  I was  of  age, 
and  study  painting. 


CHAPTER  II 


T last  the  day  came,  and  with  several  trunks 


and  boxes  full  of  clothes,  books,  and  pictures,  I 
started,  accompanied  by  an  English  valet,  for  Paris 
and  Art. 

We  all  know  the  great  grey  and  melancholy  Gare 
du  Nord,  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning;  and  the 
miserable  carriages,  and  the  tall,  haggard  city.  Pale, 
sloppy,  yellow  houses;  an  oppressive  absence  of  col- 
our; a peculiar  bleakness  in  the  streets.  The  mena- 
gere  hurries  down  the  asphalte  to  market ; a dreadful 
gargon  de  cafe , with  a napkin  tied  round  his  throat, 
moves  about  some  chairs,  so  decrepit  and  so  solitary 
that  it  seems  impossible  to  imagine  a human  being 
sitting  there.  Where  are  the  Boulevards  ? where  are 
the  Champs  filysees?  I asked  myself;  and  feeling 
bound  to  apologise  for  the  appearance  of  the  city, 
I explained  to  my  valet  that  we  were  passing  through 
some  by-streets,  and  returned  to  the  study  of  a French 
vocabulary.  Nevertheless,  when  the  time  came  to 
formulate  a demand  for  rooms,  hot  water,  and  a fire, 
I broke  down,  and  the  proprietress  of  the  hotel,  who 
spoke  English,  had  to  be  sent  for. 

My  plans,  so  far  as  I had  any,  were  to  enter  the 
beaux  arts — Cabanel’s  studio  for  preference;  for  I 


11 


12  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


had  then  an  intense  and  profound  admiration  for 
that  painter’s  work.  I did  not  think  much  of  the 
application  I was  told  I should  have  to  make  at  the 
Embassy ; my  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the  master,  and 
my  one  desire  was  to  see  him.  To  see  him  was  easy, 
to  speak  to  him  was  another  matter,  and  I had  to 
wait  three  weeks,  until  I could  hold  a conversation 
in  French.  How  I achieved  this  feat  I cannot  say. 
I never  opened  a book,  I know,  nor  is  it  agreeable  to 
think  what  my  language  must  have  been  like — like 
nothing  ever  heard  under  God’s  sky  before,  probably. 
It  was,  however,  sufficient  to  waste  a good  hour  of 
the  painter’s  time.  I told  him  of  my  artistic  sym- 
pathies, what  pictures  I had  seen  of  his  in  London, 
and  how  much  pleased  I was  with  those  then  in  his 
studio.  He  went  through  the  ordeal  without  flinch- 
ing. He  said  he  would  be  glad  to  have  me  as  a 
pupil.  . . . 

But  life  in  the  beaux  arts  is  rough,  coarse,  and 
rowdy.  The  model  sits  only  three  times  a week : the 
other  days  we  worked  from  the  plaster  cast;  and  to 
be  there  by  seven  o’clock  in  the  morning  required  so 
painful  an  effort  of  will,  that  I glanced  in  terror 
down  the  dim  and  grey  perspective  of  early  risings 
that  awaited  me;  then,  demoralised  by  the  lassitude 
of  Sunday,  I told  my  valet  on  Monday  morning  to 
leave  the  room,  that  I would  return  to  the  beaux  arts 
no  more.  I felt  humiliated  at  my  own  weakness,  for 
much  hope  had  been  centred  in  that  academy ; and  1 
knew  no  other.  Day  after  day  I walked  up  and  down 
the  Boulevards,  studying  the  photographs  of  the 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  13 


salon  pictures,  and  was  stricken  by  the  art  of  Jules 
Lefevre.  True  it  is  that  I saw  it  was  wanting  in 
that  tender  grace  which  I am  forced  to  admit  even 
now,  saturated  though  I now  am  with  the  aesthetics 
of  different  schools,  is  inherent  in  Cabanel’s  work; 
but  at  the  time  I am  writing  of,  my  nature  was  too 
young  and  mobile  to  resist  the  conventional  attrac- 
tiveness of  nude  figures,  indolent  attitudes,  long  hair, 
slender  hips  and  hands,  and  I accepted  Jules  Le- 
fevre wholly  and  unconditionally.  He  hesitated, 
however,  when  I asked  to  be  taken  as  a private  pupil, 
but  he  wrote  out  the  address  of  a studio  where  he 
gave  instruction  every  Tuesday  morning.  This  was 
even  more  to  my  taste,  for  I had  an  instinctive  liking 
for  Frenchmen,  and  was  anxious  to  see  as  much  of 
them  as  possible. 

The  studio  was  perched  high  up  in  the  Passage  des 
Panoramas.  There  I found  M.  Julien,  a typical 
meridional — the  large  stomach,  the  dark  eyes,  crafty 
and  watchful;  the  seductively  mendacious  manner, 
the  sensual  mind.  We  made  friends  at  once — he 
consciously  making  use  of  me,  I unconsciously  mak- 
ing use  of  him.  To  him  my  forty  francs,  a month’s 
subscription,  were  a godsend,  nor  were  my  invita- 
tions to  dinner  and  to  the  theatre  to  be  disdained. 
I was  curious,  odd,  quaint.  To  be  sure,  it  was  a little 
tiresome  to  have  to  put  up  with  a talkative  person, 
whose  knowledge  of  the  French  language  had  been 
acquired  in  three  months,  but  the  dinners  were  good. 
No  doubt  Julien  reasoned  so;  I did  not  reason  at 
all.  I felt  this  crafty,  clever  man  of  the  world  was 


14  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 

necessary  to  me.  I had  never  met  such  a man  before, 
and  all  my  curiosity  was  awake.  He  spoke  of  art 
and  literature,  of  the  world  and  the  flesh;  he  told 
me  of  the  books  he  had  read,  he  narrated  thrilling 
incidents  in  his  own  life;  and  the  moral  reflections 
with  which  he  sprinkled  his  conversation  I thought 
very  striking.  Like  every  young  man  of  twenty,  I 
was  on  the  look-out  for  something  to  set  up  that  would 
do  duty  for  an  ideal.  The  world  was  to  me,  at  this 
time,  what  a toy  shop  had  been  fifteen  years  before : 
everything  was  spick  and  span,  and  every  illusion 
was  set  out  straight  and  smart  in  new  paint  and 
gilding.  But  Julien  kept  me  at  a distance,  and  the 
rare  occasions  when  he  favoured  me  with  his  society 
only  served  to  prepare  my  mind  for  the  friendship 
which  awaited  me,  and  which  was  destined  to  absorb 
some  years  of  my  life. 

In  the  studio  there  were  some  eighteen  or  twenty 
young  men,  and  among  these  there  were  some  four 
or  five  from  whom  I could  learn ; and  there  were  also 
there  some  eight  or  nine  young  English  girls.  We 
sat  round  in  a circle,  and  drew  from  the  model.  And 
this  reversal  of  all  the  world’s  opinions  and  preju- 
dices was  to  me  singularly  delightful;  I loved  the 
sense  of  unreality  that  the  exceptionalness  of  our  life 
in  this  studio  conveyed.  Besides,  the  women  them- 
selves were  young  and  interesting,  and  were,  there- 
fore, one  of  the  charms  of  the  place,  giving,  as  they 
did,  that  sense  of  sex  which  is  so  subtle  a mental 
pleasure,  and  which  is,  in  its  outward  aspect,  so  in- 
teresting to  the  eye — the  gowns,  the  hair  lifted,  show- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  15 


ing  the  neck;  the  earrings,  the  sleeves  open  at  the 
elbow.  Though  all  this  was  very  dear  to  me  I did 
not  fall  in  love:  but  he  who  escapes  a woman’s  do- 
minion generally  comes  under  the  sway  of  some 
friend  who  ever  uses  a strange  attractiveness,  and 
fosters  a sort  of  dependency  that  is  not  healthful  or 
valid:  and  although  I look  back  with  undiminished 
delight  on  the  friendship  I contracted  about  this  time 
— a friendship  which  permeated  and  added  to  my 
life — I am  nevertheless  forced  to  recognise  that,  how- 
ever suitable  it  may  have  been  in  my  special  case,  in 
the  majority  of  instances  it  would  have  proved  but  a 
shipwrecking  reef,  on  which  a young  man’s  life 
would  have  gone  to  pieces.  What  saved  me  was  the 
intensity  of  my  passion  for  Art,  and  a moral  revolt 
against  any  action  that  I thought  could  or  would 
definitely  compromise  me  in  that  direction.  I was 
willing  to  stray  a little  from  my  path,  but  never 
further  than  a single  step,  which  I could  retrace  when 
I pleased. 

One  day  I raised  my  eyes,  and  saw  there  was  a 
new-comer  in  the  studio ; and,  to  my  surprise,  for  he 
was  fashionably  dressed,  and  my  experience  had  not 
led  me  to  believe  in  the  marriage  of  genius  and  well- 
cut  cloth,  he  was  painting  very  well  indeed.  His 
shoulders  were  beautiful  and  broad ; a long  neck,  a 
tiny  head,  a narrow,  thin  face,  and  large  eyes,  full 
of  intelligence  and  fascination.  And  although  he 
could  not  have  been  working  more  than  an  hour,  he 
had  already  sketched  in  his  figure,  and  with  all  the 
surroundings — screens,  lamps,  stoves,  etc.  I was 


16  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


deeply  interested.  I asked  the  young  lady  next  me 
if  she  knew  who  he  was.  She  could  give  me  no  in- 
formation. But  at  four  o’clock  there  was  a general 
exodus  from  the  studio,  and  we  adjourned  to  a neigh- 
bouring cafe  to  drink  beer.  The  way  led  through  a 
narrow  passage,  and  as  we  stooped  under  an  archway, 
the  young  man  (Marshall  was  his  name)  spoke  to  me 
in  English.  Yes,  we  had  met  before;  we  had  ex- 
changed a few  words  in  So-and-So’s  studio — the  great 
blonde  man,  whose  Dore-like  improvisations  had 
awakened  aspiration  in  me. 

The  usual  reflections  on  the  chances  of  life  were 
of  course  made,  and  then  followed  the  inevitable 
“Will  you  dine  with  me  to-night?”  Marshall 
thought  the  following  day  would  suit  him  better,  but 
I was  very  pressing.  He  offered  to  meet  me  at  my 
hotel ; or  would  I come  with  him  to  his  rooms,  and  he 
would  show  me  some  pictures — some  trifles  he  had 
brought  up  from  the  country  ? Nothing  would  please 
me  better.  We  got  into  a cab.  Then  every  moment 
revealed  new  qualities,  new  superiorities,  in  my  new- 
found friend.  Not  only  was  he  tall,  strong,  hand- 
some, and  beautifully  dressed,  infinitely  better 
dressed  than  I,  but  he  could  talk  French  like  a na- 
tive. It  was  only  natural  that  he  should,  for  he  was 
born  and  had  lived  in  Brussels  all  his  life,  but  the 
accident  of  birth  rather  stimulated  than  calmed  my 
erubescent  admiration.  He  spoke  of,  and  he  was 
clearly  on  familiar  terms  with,  the  fashionable  res- 
taurants and  actresses;  he  stopped  at  a hairdresser’s 
to  have  his  hair  curled.  All  this  was  very  exciting, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  17 


and  a little  bewildering.  I was  on  the  tiptoe  of  ex- 
pectation to  see  his  apartments ; and,  not  to  be  utterly 
outdone,  I alluded  to  my  valet. 

His  apartments  were  not  so  grand  as  I expected; 
but  when  he  explained  that  he  had  just  spent  ten 
thousand  pounds  in  two  years,  and  was  now  living  on 
six  or  seven  hundred  francs  a month,  which  his  moth- 
er would  allow  him  until  he  had  painted  and  had  sold 
a certain  series  of  pictures,  which  he  contemplated  be- 
ginning at  once,  my  admiration  increased  to  wonder, 
and  I examined  with  awe  the  great  fireplace  which 
had  been  constructed  at  his  orders,  and  admired  the 
iron  pot  which  hung  by  a chain  above  an  artificial 
bivouac  fire.  This  detail  will  suggest  the  rest  of  the 
studio — the  Turkey  carpet,  the  brass  harem  lamps, 
the  Japanese  screen,  the  pieces  of  drapery,  the  oak 
chairs  covered  with  red  Utrecht  velvet,  the  oak  ward- 
robe that  had  been  picked  up  somewhere, — a ridicu- 
lous bargain,  and  the  inevitable  bed  with  spiral  col- 
umns. There  were  vases  filled  with  foreign  grasses, 
and  palms  stood  in  the  corners  of  the  rooms.  Mar- 
shall pulled  out  a few  pictures;  but  he  paid  very 
little  heed  to  my  compliments ; and,  sitting  down  at 
the  piano,  with  a great  deal  of  splashing  and  dashing 
about  the  keys,  he  rattled  off  a waltz. 

“What  waltz  is  that  ?”  I asked. 

“Oh,  nothing;  something  I composed  the  other 
evening.  I had  a fit  of  the  blues,  and  didn’t  go  out. 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ?” 

“I  think  it  beautiful ; did  you  really  compose  that 
the  other  evening  V9 


18  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


At  this  moment  a knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and 
a beautiful  English  girl  entered.  Marshall  intro- 
duced me.  With  looks  that  see  nothing,  and  words 
that  mean  nothing,  an  amorous  woman  receives  the 
man  she  finds  with  her  sweetheart.  But  it  subse- 
quently transpired  that  Alice  had  an  appointment, 
that  she  was  dining  out.  She  would,  however,  call 
in  the  morning,  and  give  him  a sitting  for  the  portrait 
he  was  painting  of  her. 

I had  hitherto  worked  very  regularly  and  atten- 
tively at  the  studio,  but  now  Marshall’s  society  was 
an  attraction  I could  not  resist.  For  the  sake  of  his 
talent,  which  I religiously  believed  in,  I regretted 
he  was  so  idle ; but  his  dissipation  was  winning,  and 
his  delight  was  thorough,  and  his  gay,  dashing  man- 
ner made  me  feel  happy,  and  his  experience  opened 
to  me  new  avenues  for  enjoyment  and  knowledge  of 
life.  On  my  arrival  in  Paris  I had  visited,  in  the 
company  of  my  taciturn  valet,  the  Mabille  and  the 
Valentino,  and  I had  dined  at  the  Maison  d’Or  by 
myself;  but  now  I was  taken  to  strange  students’ 
cafes , where  dinners  were  paid  for  in  pictures;  to  a 
mysterious  place,  where  a table  d'hote  was  held  under 
a tent  in  a back  garden ; and  afterwards  we  went  in 
great  crowds  to  Bullier,  the  Chateau  Rouge , or  the 
Elysee  Montmartre . The  clangour  of  the  band,  the 
unreal  greenness  of  the  foliage,  the  thronging  of  the 
dancers,  and  the  chattering  of  women,  whose  Chris- 
tian names  we  only  knew.  And  then  the  returning  in 
open  carriages  rolling  through  the  white  dust  be- 
neath the  immense  heavy  dome  of  the  summer  night, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  19 

when  the  dusty  darkness  of  the  street  is  chequered 
by  a passing  glimpse  of  light  skirt  or  flying  feather, 
and  the  moon  looms  like  a magic  lantern  out  of  the 
sky. 

Now  we  seemed  to  live  in  fiacres  and  restaurants, 
and  the  afternoons  were  filled  with  febrile  impres- 
sions. Marshall  had  a friend  in  this  street,  and  an- 
other in  that.  It  was  only  necessary  for  him  to  cry 
“Stop”  to  the  coachman,  and  to  run  up  two  or  three 
flights  of  stairs.  . . . 

“Madame > est-elle  chez  elle?” 

“ Oui , Monsieur ; si  Monsieur  veut  se  donner  la 
peine  d’entrer And  we  were  shown  into  a hand- 
somely furnished  apartment.  A lady  would  enter 
hurriedly,  and  an  animated  discussion  was  begun.  I 
did  not  know  French  sufficiently  well  to  follow  the 
conversation,  but  I remember  it  always  commenced 
mon  cher  ami , and  was  plentifully  sprinkled  with 
the  phrase  vous  avez  tort . The  ladies  themselves  had 
only  just  returned  from  Constantinople  or  Japan, 
and  they  were  generally  involved  in  mysterious  law- 
suits, or  were  busily  engaged  in  prosecuting  claims 
for  several  millions  of  francs  against  different  for- 
eign governments. 

And  just  as  I had  watched  the  chorus  girls  and 
mummers,  three  years  ago,  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  now, 
excited  by  a nervous  curiosity,  I watched  this  world 
of  Parisian  adventurers  and  lights  o’  love.  And  this 
craving  for  observation  of  manners,  this  instinct  for 
the  rapid  notation  of  gestures  and  words  that  epit- 


20  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


omise  a state  of  feeling,  of  attitudes  that  mirror 
forth  the  soul,  declared  itself  a main  passion;  and 
it  grew  and  strengthened,  to  the  detriment  of  the 
other  Art  still  so  dear  to  me.  With  the  patience  of 
a cat  before  a mouse-hole,  I watched  and  listened,  i 
picking  one  characteristic  phrase  out  of  hours  of 
vain  chatter,  interested  and  amused  by  an  angry  or 
loving  glance.  Like  the  midges  that  fret  the  surface 
of  a shadowy  stream,  these  men  and  women  seemed 
to  me;  and  though  I laughed,  danced,  and  made 
merry  with  them,  I was  not  of  them.  But  with  Mar- 
shall it  was  different : they  were  my  amusement,  they 
were  his  necessary  pleasure.  And  I knew  of  this 
distinction  that  made  twain  our  lives ; and  I reflected 
deeply  upon  it.  Why  could  I not  live  without  an 
ever-present  and  acute  consciousness  of  life?  Why 
could  I not  love,  forgetful  of  the  harsh  ticking  of 
the  clock  in  the  perfumed  silence  of  the  chamber? 

And  so  my  friend  became  to  me  a study,  a subject 
for  dissection.  The  general  attitude  of  his  mind  and 
its  various  turns,  all  the  apparent  contradictions,  and 
how  they  could  be  explained,  classified,  and  reduced 
to  one  primary  law,  were  to  me  a constant  source  of 
thought.  Our  confidences  knew  no  reserve.  I say 
our  confidences,  because  to  obtain  confidences  it  is 
often  necessary  to  confide.  All  we  saw,  heard,  read, 
or  felt  was  the  subject  of  mutual  confidences:  the 
transitory  emotion  that  a flush  of  colour  and  a bit  of 
perspective  awakens,  the  blue  tints  that  the  sunsetting 
lends  to  a white  dress,  or  the  eternal  verities,  death 
and  love.  But,  although  I tested  every  fibre  of 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  21 


thought  and  analysed  every  motive,  I was  very  sin- 
cere in  my  friendship,  and  very  loyal  in  my  admira- 
tion. Nor  did  my  admiration  wane  when  I discov- 
ered that  Marshall  was  shallow  in  his  appreciations, 
superficial  in  his  judgments,  that  his  talents  did  not 
pierce  below  the  surface ; il  avait  se  grand  air ; there 
was  fascination  in  his  very  bearing,  in  his  large,  soft, 
colourful  eyes,  and  a go  and  dash  in  his  dissipations 
that  carried  you  away. 

To  any  one  observing  us  at  this  time  it  would  have 
seemed  that  I was  but  a hanger-on,  and  a feeble  imi- 
tator of  Marshall.  I took  him  to  my  tailor’s,  and  he 
advised  me  on  the  cut  of  my  coats;  he  showed  me 
how  to  arrange  my  rooms,  and  I strove  to  copy  his 
manner  of  speech  and  his  general  bearing ; and  yet  I 
knew  very  well  indeed  that  mine  was  a rarer  and 
more  original  nature.  I was  willing  to  learn,  that 
was  all.  There  was  much  that  Marshall  could  teach 
me,  and  I used  him  without  shame,  without  stint.  I 
used  him  as  I have  used  all  those  with  whom  I have 
been  brought  into  close  contact.  Search  my  memory 
as  1 will,  I cannot  recall  a case  of  man  or  woman 
who  ever  occupied  any  considerable  part  of  my 
thoughts  and  did  not  contribute  largely  towards  my 
moral  or  physical  welfare.  In  other  words,  and  in 
very  colloquial  language,  I never  had  useless  friends 
hanging  about  me.  From  this  crude  statement  of  a 
signal  fact,  the  thoughtless  reader  will  at  once  judge 
me  rapacious,  egotistical,  false,  fawning,  mendacious. 
Well,  I may  be  all  this  and  more,  but  not  because  all 
who  have  known  me  have  rendered  me  eminent  ser- 


22  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


vices.  I can  say  that  no  one  ever  formed  relationships 
in  life  with  less  design  than  myself.  Never  have  I 
given  a thought  to  the  advantage  that  might  accrue 
from  being  on  terms  of  friendship  with  this  man  and 
avoiding  that  one.  “Then  how  do  you  explain/’  cries 
the  angry  reader,  “that  you  have  never  had  a friend 
whom  you  did  not  make  a profit  out  of  ? You  must 
have  had  very  few  friends.”  On  the  contrary,  I 
have  had  many  friends,  and  of  all  sorts  and  kinds — 
men  and  women : and,  I repeat,  none  took  part  in  my 
life  who  did  not  contribute  something  towards  my 
well-being.  It  must,  of  course,  be  understood  that  I 
make  no  distinction  between  mental  and  material 
help;  and  in  my  case  the  one  has  ever  been  adjuvant 
to  the  other.  “Pooh,  pooh!”  again  exclaims  the 
reader;  “I  for  one  will  not  believe  that  chance  has 
only  sent  across  your  way  the  people  who  were  re- 
quired to  assist  you.”  Chance ! dear  reader,  is  there 
such  a thing  as  chance  ? Do  you  believe  in  chance  ? 
Do  you  attach  any  precise  meaning  to  the  word  ? Do 
you  employ  it  at  haphazard,  allowing  it  to  mean 
what  it  may  ? Chance ! What  a field  for  psychical 
investigation  is  at  once  opened  up ; how  we  may  tear 
to  shreds  our  past  lives  in  search  of — what  ? Of 
the  Chance  that  made  us.  I think,  reader,  I can 
throw  some  light  on  the  general  question,  by  replying 
to  your  taunt:  Chance,  or  the  conditions  of  life 
under  which  we  live,  sent,  of  course,  thousands  of 
creatures  across  my  way  who  were  powerless  to  benefit 
me;  but  then  an  instinct  of  which  I knew  nothing, 
of  which  I was  not  even  conscious,  withdrew  me  from 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  23 


them,  and  I was  attracted  to  others.  Have  you  not 
seen  a horse  suddenly  leave  a comer  of  a field  to  seek 
pasturage  further  away  ? 

Never  could  I interest  myself  in  a book  if  it  were 
not  the  exact  diet  my  mind  required  at  the  time,  or  in 
the  very  immediate  future.  The  mind  asked,  received, 
and  digested.  So  much  was  assimilated,  so  much  ex- 
pelled; then,  after  a season,  similar  demands  were 
made,  the  same  processes  were  repeated  out  of  sight, 
below  consciousness,  as  is  the  case  in  a well-ordered 
stomach.  Shelley,  who  fired  my  youth  with  passion, 
and  purified  and  upbore  it  for  so  long,  is  now  to  me 
as  nothing:  not  a dead  or  faded  thing,  but  a thing 
out  of  which  I personally  have  drawn  all  the  sus- 
tenance I may  draw  from  him;  and,  therefore,  it 
(that  part  which  I did  not  absorb)  concerns  me  no 
more.  And  the  same  with  Gautier.  Mdlle.  de  Mau- 
pin,  that  godhead  of  flowing  line,  that  desire  not  “of 
the  moth  for  the  star,”  but  for  such  perfection  of 
hanging  arm  and  leaned  thigh  as  leaves  passion 
breathless  and  fain  of  tears,  is  now,  if  I take  up  the 
book  and  read,  weary  and  ragged  as  a spider's  web, 
that  has  hung  the  winter  through  in  the  dusty,  for- 
gotten corner  of  a forgotten  room.  My  old  rapture 
and  my  youth's  delight  I can  regain  only  when  I 
think  of  that  part  of  Gautier  which  is  now  incarnate 
in  me. 

As  I picked  up  books,  so  I picked  up  my  friends. 
I read  friends  and  books  with  the  same  passion,  with 
the  same  avidity ; and  as  I discarded  my  books  when 
I had  assimilated  as  much  of  them  as  my  system 


24  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


. 


required,  so  I discarded  my  friends  when  they  ceased 
to  be  of  use  to  me.  I use  the  word  “use”  in  its  fullest, 
not  in  its  limited  and  twenty-shilling  sense.  This 
reduction  of  the  intellect  to  the  blind  unconsciousness 
of  the  lower  organs  will  strike  some  as  a violation  of 
man’s  best  beliefs,  and  as  saying  very  little  for  the 
particular  intellect  that  can  be  so  reduced.  But  I 
am  not  sure  these  people  are  right.  I am  inclined  to 
think  that  as  you  ascend  the  scale  of  thought  to  the 
great  minds,  these  unaccountable  impulses,  myste- 
rious resolutions,  sudden,  but  certain  knowings,  fall- 
ing whence,  or  how  it  is  impossible  to  say,  but  falling 
somehow  into  the  brain,  instead  of  growing  rarer, 
become  more  and  more  frequent;  indeed,  I think 
that  if  the  really  great  man  were  to  confess  to  the 
working  of  his  mind,  we  should  see  him  constantly 
besieged  by  inspirations  . . . inspirations ! Ah ! how 
human  thought  only  turns  in  a circle,  and  how,  when 
we  think  we  are  on  the  verge  of  a new  thought,  we 
slip  into  the  enunciation  of  some  time-worn  truth. 
But  I say  again,  let  general  principles  be  waived ; it 
will  suffice  for  the  interest  of  these  pages  if  it  be 
understood  that  brain  instincts  have  always  been,  and 
still  are,  the  initial  and  the  determining  powers  of 
my  being. 

***** 

But  the  studio,  where  I had  been  working  for  the 
last  three  or  four  months  so  diligently,  became  wear- 
isome to  me,  and  for  two  reasons.  First,  because  it 
deprived  me  of  many  hours  of  Marshall’s  company. 
Secondly — and  the  second  reason  was  the  graver — 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  25 


because  I was  beginning  to  regard  the  delineation  of 
a nymph,  or  youth  bathing,  etc.,  as  a very  narrow 
channel  to  carry  off  the  strong,  full  tide  of  a man’s 
thought.  For  now  thoughts  of  love  and  death,  and 
the  hopelessness  of  life,  were  in  active  fermentation 
within  me  and  sought  for  utterance  with  a strange 
unintermittingness  of  appeal.  I yearned  merely  to 
give  direct  expression  to  my  pain.  Life  was  then  in 
its  springtide;  every  thought  was  new  to  me,  and  it 
would  have  seemed  a pity  to  disguise  even  the  sim- 
plest emotion  in  any  garment  when  it  was  so  beauti- 
ful in  its  Eden-like  nakedness.  The  creatures  whom 
I met  in  the  ways  and  by  ways  of  Parisian  life,  whose 
gestures  and  attitudes  I devoured  with  my  eyes,  and 
whose  souls  I hungered  to  know,  awoke  in  me  a tense 
irresponsible  curiosity,  but  that  was  all, — I despised, 
I hated  them,  thought  them  contemptible,  and  to 
select  them  as  subjects  of  artistic  treatment,  could 
not  then,  might  never,  have  occurred  to  me,  had  the 
suggestion  to  do  so  not  come  direct  to  me  from  the 
outside. 

At  the  time  I am  writing  I lived  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned hotel  on  the  Boulevard,  which  an  enterprising 
Belgian  had  lately  bought  and  was  endeavouring  to 
modernise ; an  old-fashioned  hotel,  that  still  clung  to 
its  ancient  character  in  the  presence  of  half  a dozen 
old  people,  who,  for  antediluvian  reasons,  continue  to 
dine  on  certain  well-specified  days  at  the  table  d'hote. 
Fifteen  years  have  passed  away,  and  these  old  people, 
no  doubt,  have  joined  their  ancestors;  but  I can  see 
them  still  sitting  in  that  salle  d manger ; the  buffets 


26  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


en  vieux  cTiene ; the  opulent  candelabra  en  style  d’ em- 
pire; the  waiter  lighting  the  gas  in  the  pale  Parisian 
evening.  That  white-haired  man,  that  tall,  thin, 
hatchet-faced  American,  has  dined  at  this  table 
d'hote  for  the  last  thirty  years — he  is  talkative,  vain, 
foolish,  and  authoritative.  The  clean,  neatly- 
dressed  old  gentleman  who  sits  by  him,  looking  so 
much  like  a French  gentleman,  has  spent  a great  part 
of  his  life  in  Spain.  With  that  piece  of  news,  and 
its  subsequent  developments,  your  acquaintance  with 
him  begins  and  ends ; the  eyes,  the  fan,  the  mantilla, 
how  it  began,  how  it  was  broken  off,  and  how  it  began 
again.  Opposite  sits  another  French  gentleman,  with 
beard  and  bristly  hair.  He  spent  twenty  years  of  his 
life  in  India,  and  he  talks  of  his  son  who  has  been  out 
there  for  the  last  ten,  and  who  has  just  returned 
home.  There  is  the  Italian  comtesse  of  sixty  sum- 
mers, who  dresses  like  a girl  of  sixteen  and  smokes 
a cigar  after  dinner, — if  there  are  not  too  many 
strangers  in  the  room.  She  terms  a stranger  any  one 
whom  she  has  not  seen  at  least  once  before.  The 
little  fat,  neckless  man,  with  the  great  bald  head, 
fringed  below  the  ears  with  hair,  is  M.  Duval.  He 
is  a dramatic  author — the  author  of  a hundred  and 
sixty  plays.  He  does  not  intrude  himself  on  your 
notice,  but  when  you  speak  to  him  on  literary  matters 
he  fixes  a pair  of  tiny,  sloe-like  eyes  on  you,  and  talks 
affably  of  his  collaborateurs. 

I was  soon  deeply  interested  in  M.  Duval,  and  I 
invited  him  to  come  to  the  cafe  after  dinner.  I paid 
for  his  coffee  and  liqueurs,  I offered  him  a choice 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  27 


cigar.  He  did  not  smoke ; I did.  It  was,  of  course, 
inevitable  that  I should  find  out  that  he  had  not  had 
a play  produced  for  the  last  twenty  years,  but  then 
the  aureole  of  the  hundred  and  sixty  was  about  his 
poor  bald  head.  I thought  of  the  chances  of  life,  he 
alluded  to  the  war;  and  so  this  unpleasantness  was 
passed  over,  and  we  entered  on  more  genial  subjects 
of  conversation.  He  had  written  plays  with  every- 
body; his  list  of  collaborateurs  was  longer  than  any 
list  of  lady  patronesses  for  an  English  county  ball; 
there  was  no  literary  kitchen  in  which  he  had  not 
helped  to  dish  up.  I was  at  once  amazed  and  de- 
lighted. Had  M.  Duval  written  his  hundred  and 
sixty  plays  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  rooms,  I should 
have  been  less  surprised;  it  was  the  mystery  of  the 
seances  of  collaboration,  the  rendezvous,  the  discus- 
sion, the  illustrious  company,  that  overwhelmed  me  in 
a rapture  of  wonder  and  respectful  admiration.  Then 
came  the  anecdotes.  They  were  of  all  sorts.  Here 
are  a few  specimens : He,  Duval,  had  written  a one- 
act  piece  with  Dumas  pere ; it  had  been  refused  at  the 
Frangais,  and  then  it  had  been  about,  here,  there,, and 
everywhere;  finally  the  Varietes  had  asked  for  some 
alterations,  and  cetait  une  affaire  entendue.  “I 
made  the  alterations  one  afternoon,  and  wrote  to 
Dumas,  and  what  do  you  think, — by  return  of  post 
I had  a letter  from  him  saying  he  could  not  consent 
to  the  production  of  a one-act  piece,  signed  by  him, 
at  the  Varietes,  because  his  son  was  then  giving  a 
five-act  piece  at  the  Gymnase.”  Then  came  a string 
of  indecent  witticisms  by  Suzanne  Lagier  and  De- 


28  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


jazet.  They  were  as  old  as  the  world,  but  they  were 
new  to  me,  and  I was  amused  and  astonished.  These 
bon-mots  were  followed  by  an  account  of  how  Gautier 
wrote  his  Sunday  feuilleton,  and  how  he  and  Balzac 
had  once  nearly  come  to  blows.  They  had  agreed  to 
collaborate.  Balzac  was  to  contribute  the  scenario, 
Gautier  the  dialogue.  One  morning  Balzac  came 
with  the  scenario  of  the  first  act.  “Here  it  is, 
Gautier!  I suppose  you  can  let  me  have  it  back 
finished  by  to-morrow  afternoon  ?”  And  the  old 
gentleman  would  chirp  along  in  this  fashion  till  mid- 
night. I would  then  accompany  him  to  his  rooms  in 
the  Quartier  Montmartre — rooms  high  up  on  the 
fifth  floor — where,  between  two  pictures,  supposed 
to  be  by  Angelica  Kaufmann,  M.  Duval  had  written 
unactable  plays  for  the  last  twenty  years,  and  where 
he  would  continue  to  write  unactable  plays  until  God 
called  him  to  a world,  perhaps,  of  eternal  cantatas, 
but  where,  by  all  accounts,  V exposition  de  la  piece 
selon  la  formule  de  M.  Scribe  is  still  unknown. 

How  I used  to  enjoy  these  conversations!  I re- 
member how  I used  to  stand  on  the  pavement  after 
having  bid  the  old  gentleman  good-night,  regretting 
I had  not  demanded  some  further  explanation  re- 
garding le  mouvement  Romantique,  or  la  fagon  de  M. 
Scribe  de  menager  la  situation. 

Why  not  write  a comedy  ? So  the  thought  came. 
I had  never  written  anything  save  a few  ill-spelt  let- 
ters; but  no  matter.  To  find  a plot,  that  was  the 
first  thing  to  do.  Take  Marshall  for  hero  and  Alice 
for  heroine,  surround  them  with  the  old  gentlemen 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  29 


who  dined  at  the  table  d'hote,  flavour  with  the  Italian 
countess  who  smoked  cigars  when  there  were  not  too 
many  strangers  present.  After  three  weeks  of  in- 
dustrious stirring,  the  ingredients  did  begin  to  sim- 
mer into  something  resembling  a plot.  Put  it  upon 
paper.  Ah ! there  was  my  difficulty.  I remembered 
suddenly  that  I had  read  “Cain,”  “Manfred,”  “The 
Cenci,”  as  poems,  without  ever  thinking  of  how  the 
dialogue  looked  upon  paper;  besides,  they  were  in 
blank  verse.  I hadn’t  a notion  how  prose  dialogue 
would  look  upon  paper.  Shakespeare  I had  never 
opened;  no  instinctive  want  had  urged  me  to  read 
him.  He  had  remained,  therefore,  unread,  unlooked 
at.  Should  I buy  a copy?  No;  the  name  repelled 
me — as  all  popular  names  repelled  me.  In  prefer- 
ence I went  to  the  Gymnase,  and  listened  attentively 
to  a comedy  by  M.  Dumas  fils.  But  strain  my  imag- 
ination as  I would,  I could  not  see  the  spoken  words 
in  their  written  form.  Oh,  for  a look  at  the 
prompter’s  copy,  the  corner  of  which  I could  see  when 
I leaned  forward!  At  last  I discovered  in  Galig- 
nani’s  library  a copy  of  Leigh  Hunt’s  edition  of  the 
old  dramatists,  and  after  a month’s  study  of  Con- 
greve Wycherley,  Vanbrugh,  and  Farquhar,  I com- 
pleted a comedy  in  three  acts,  which  I entitled 
“Worldliness.”  It  was,  of  course,  very  bad;  but,  if 
my  memory  serves  me  well,  I do  not  think  it  was 
nearly  so  bad  as  might  be  imagined. 

No  sooner  was  the  last  scene  written  than  I started 
at  once  for  London,  confident  I should  find  no  diffi- 
culty in  getting  my  play  produced. 


CHAPTER  III 


T S it  necessary  to  say  that  I did  not  find  a manager 
to  produce  my  play  ? A printer  was  more  attain- 
able, and  the  correction  of  proofs  amused  me  for  a 
while.  I wrote  another  play;  and  when  the  hieing 
after  theatrical  managers  began  to  lose  its  attractive- 
ness my  thoughts  reverted  to  France,  which  always 
haunted  me ; and  which  now  possessed  me  as  if  with 
the  sweet  and  magnetic  influence  of  home. 

How  important  my  absence  from  Paris  seemed  to 
me;  and  how  Paris  rushed  into  my  eyes! — Paris — 
public  ball-rooms,  cafes , the  models  in  the  studio  and 
the  young  girls  painting,  and  Marshall,  Alice,  and 
Julien.  Marshall! — my  thoughts  pointed  at  him 
through  the  intervening  streets  and  the  endless  pro- 
cession of  people  coming  and  going. 

“M.  Marshall,  is  he  at  home  ?”  “M.  Marshall  left 
here  some  months  ago.”  “Do  you  know  his  address  ?” 
“I’ll  ask  my  husband.”  “Do  you  know  M.  Marshall’s 
address!”  “Yes,  he’s  gone  to  live  in  the  Rue  de 
Douai.”  “What  number?”  “I  think  it  is  fifty- 
four.”  “Thanks.”  “Coachman,  wake  up ; drive  me 
to  the  Rue  de  Douai.” 

But  Marshall  was  not  to  be  found  at  the  Rue  de 
Douai ; and  he  had  left  no  address.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  go  to  the  studio;  I should  be  able 

30 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  31 


to  obtain  news  of  him  there, — perhaps  find  him.  But 
when  I pulled  aside  the  curtain,  the  accustomed  piece 
of  slim  nakedness  did  not  greet  my  eyes;  only  the 
blue  apron  of  an  old  woman  enveloped  in  a cloud  of' 
dust.  “The  gentlemen  are  not  here  to-day,  the  studio 
is  closed;  I am  sweeping  up.”  “Oh,  and  where  is 
M.  Julien?”  “I  cannot  say,  sir:  perhaps  at  the  cafe,, 
or  perhaps  he  is  gone  to  the  country.”  This  was  not 
very  encouraging,  and  now,  my  enthusiasm  thor- 
oughly damped,  I strolled  along  le  Passage,  looking 
at  the  fans,  the  bangles  and  the  litter  of  cheap 
trinkets  that  each  window  was  filled  with.  On  the 
left  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard  was  our  cafe . As 
I came  forward  the  waiter  moved  one  of  the  tin 
tables,  and  then  I saw  the  fat  Provencal.  But  just 
as  if  he  had  seen  me  yesterday  he  said,  “Tiens!  cest 
vous ; une  deme  tasse?  oui  . . . gargon,  une  deme 
tasse.”  Presently  the  conversation  turned  on  Mar- 
shall; they  had  not  seen  much  of  him  lately.  “II 
parait  quit  est  plus  amour eux  que  jamais,”  Julien 
replied  sardonically. 

I found  my  friend  in  large  furnished  apartments 
on  the  ground  floor  in  the  Eue  Duphot.  The  walls 
were  stretched  with  blue  silk,  there  were  large  mir- 
rors and  great  gilt  cornices.  Passing  into  the  bed- 
room I found  the  young  god  wallowing  in  the  finest 
of  fine  linen — in  a great  Louis  XV.  bed,  and  there 
were  cupids  above  him.  “Holloa!  what,  you  back 
again,  Dayne?  we  thought  we  weren’t  going  to  see 
you  again.” 


82  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


“It’s  nearly  one  o’clock : get  up.  What’s  the 
news  ?” 

“To-day  is  the  opening  of  the  exposition  of  the 
Impressionists.  We’ll  have  a bit  of  breakfast  round 
the  corner,  at  Durant’s,  and  we’ll  go  on  there.  I hear 
that  Bedlam  is  nothing  to  it ; there  is  a canvas  there 
twenty  feet  square  and  in  three  tints:  pale  yellow 
for  the  sunlight,  brown  for  the  shadows,  and  all  the 
Test  is  sky-blue.  There  is,  I am  told,  a lady  walking 
in  the  foreground  with  a ring-tailed  monkey,  and 
the  tail  is  said  to  be  three  yards  long.” 

And  so  we  went  to  jeer  a group  of  enthusiasts  that 
willingly  forfeit  all  delights  of  the  world  in  the  hope 
of  realising  a new  aestheticism;  we  went  insolent 
with  patent  leather  shoes  and  bright  kid  gloves  and 
armed  with  all  the  jargon  of  the  school.  “Cette 
jambe  ne  porte  pas “la  nature  ne  se  fait  pas  comme 
gaj”  “on  dessine  par  les  masses ; combien  de  tetes V* 
“Sept  et  demi”  “Si  j’avais  un  morceau  de  craie  je 
mettrais  celle-la  dans  un  bocal,  c est  un  foetus ” etc. ; 
in  a word,  all  that  the  journals  of  culture  are  pleased 
to  term  an  artistic  education.  And  then  the  boister- 
ous laughter,  exaggerated  in  the  hope  of  giving  as 
much  pain  as  possible. 

The  history  of  Impressionist  art  is  simple.  In  the 
beginning  of  this  century  the  tradition  of  French  art 
— the  tradition  of  Boucher,  Fragonard,  and  Watteau 
— had  been  completely  lost ; having  produced  genius, 
their  art  died.  Ingres  is  the  sublime  flower  of  the 
classic  art  which  succeeded  the  art  of  the  palace  and 
the  boudoir:  further  than  Ingres  it  was  impossible 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  35 


to  go,  and  his  art  died.  Then  the  Turners  and  Con- 
stables came  to  France,  and  they  begot  Trovon,  and 
Troyon  begot  Millet,  Courbet,  Corot,  and  Rousseau^ 
and  these  in  turn  begot  Degas,  Pissarro,  Madame 
Morizot,  and  Guillaumin.  Degas  is  a pupil  of 
Ingres,  but  he  applies  the  marvellous  acuteness  of 
drawing  he  learned  from  his  master  to  delineating 
the  humblest  aspects  of  modem  life.  Degas  drawa 
not  by  the  masses,  but  by  the  character; — his  sub- 
jects are  shop-girls,  ballet-girls,  and  washerwomen, 
but  the  qualities  that  endow  them  with  immortality 
are  precisely  those  which  eternalise  the  virgins  and 
saints  of  Leonardo  da  Yinci  in  the  minds  of  men. 
You  see  the  fat,  vulgar  woman  in  the  long  cloak  try- 
ing on  a hat  in  front  of  the  pier-glass.  So  marvel- 
lously well  are  the  lines  of  her  face  observed  and 
rendered  that  you  can  tell  exactly  what  her  position 
in  life  is ; you  know  what  the  furniture  of  her  rooms 
is  like;  you  know  what  she  would  say  to  you  if  she 
were  to  speak.  She  is  as  typical  of  the  nineteenth 
century  as  Fragonard’s  ladies  are  of  the  Court  of 
Louis  XV.  To  the  right  you  see  a picture  of -two 
shop-girls  with  bonnets  in  their  hands.  So  accu- 
rately are  the  habitual  movements  of  the  heads  and 
the  hands  observed  that  you  at  once  realise  the  years 
of  bonnet-showing  and  servile  words  that  these 
women  have  lived  through.  We  have  seen  Degas  do 
this  before — it  is  a welcome  repetition  of  a familiar 
note,  but  it  is  not  until  we  turn  to  the  set  of  nude 
figures  that  we  find  the  great  artist  revealing  any  new 
phase  of  his  talent.  The  first,  in  an  attitude  which 


:34  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


suggests  the  kneeling  Venus,  washes  her  thighs  in  a 
tin  bath.  The  second,  a back  view,  full  of  the  mal- 
formations of  forty  years,  of  children,  of  hard  work, 
stands  gripping  her  flanks  with  both  hands.  The 
naked  woman  has  become  impossible  in  modem  art ; 
it  required  Degas5  genius  to  infuse  new  life  into  the 
worn-out  theme.  Cynicism  was  the  great  means  of 
eloquence  of  the  middle  ages,  and  with  cynicism 
Degas  has  rendered  the  nude  again  an  artistic  pos- 
sibility. What  Mr.  Horsley  or  the  British  matron 
would  say  it  is  difficult  to  guess.  Perhaps  the  hide- 
ousness depicted  by  M.  Degas  would  frighten  them 
more  than  the  sensuality  which  they  condemn  in  Sir 
Frederick  Leighton.  But,  be  this  as  it  may,  it  is 
certain  that  the  great,  fat,  short-legged  creature,  who 
in  her  humble  and  touching  ugliness  passes  a chemise 
over  her  lumpy  shoulders,  is  a triumph  of  art.  Ugli- 
ness is  trivial,  the  monstrous  is  terrible;  Velasquez 
knew  this  when  he  painted  his  dwarfs. 

Pissarro  exhibited  a group  of  girls  gathering  apples 
in  a garden — sad  greys  and  violets  beautifully  har- 
monised. The  figures  seem  to  move  as  in  a dream: 
we  are  on  the  thither  side  of  life,  in  a world  of  quiet 
colour  and  happy  aspiration.  Those  apples  will 
never  fall  from  the  branches,  those  baskets  that  the 
stooping  girls  are  filling  will  never  be  filled:  that 
garden  is  the  garden  of  the  peace  that  life  has  not  for 
giving,  but  which  the  painter  has  set  in  an  eternal 
dream  of  violet  and  grey. 

Madame  Morizot  exhibited  a series  of  delicate 
fancies.  Here  are  two  young  girls;  the  sweet  at- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  35 


mosphere  folds  them  as  with  a veil;  they  are  all 
summer;  their  dreams  are  limitless,  their  days  are 
fading,  and  their  ideas  follow  the  flight  of  the  white 
butterflies  through  the  standard  roses.  Take  note, 
too,  of  the  stand  of  fans ; what  delicious  fancies  are 
there — willows,  balconies,  gardens,  and  terraces. 

Then,  contrasting  with  these  distant  tendernesses, 
there  was  the  vigorous  painting  of  Guillaumin. 
There  life  is  rendered  in  violent  and  colourful  bru- 
tality. The  ladies  fishing  in  the  park,  with  the 
violet  of  the  skies  and  the  green  of  the  trees  descend- 
ing upon  them,  is  a chef  d’ oeuvre.  Nature  seems  to 
be  closing  about  them  like  a tomb ; and  that  hillside, 
— sunset  flooding  the  skies  with  yellow  and  the  earth 
with  blue  shadow, — is  another  piece  of  painting  that 
will  one  day  find  a place  in  one  of  the  public  gal- 
leries ; and  the  same  can  be  said  of  the  portrait  of  the 
woman  on  a background  of  chintz  flowers. 

We  could  but  utter  coarse  gibes  and  exclaim, 
“What  could  have  induced  him  to  paint  such  things  ? 
surely  he  must  have  seen  that  it  was  absurd.  I won- 
der if  the  Impressionists  are  in  earnest  or  if  it  is 
only  une  blague  quon  nous  fait V’  Then  we  stood 
and  screamed  at  Monet,  that  most  exquisite  painter 
of  blonde  light.  We  stood  before  the  “Turkeys/’  and 
seriously  we  wondered  if  “it  was  serious  work,” — 
that  chef  d’ oeuvre!  the  high  grass  that  the  turkeys 
are  gobbling  is  flooded  with  sunlight  so  swift  and  in- 
tense that  for  a moment  the  illusion  is  complete. 
“Just  look  at  the  house!  why,  the  turkeys  couldn’t 
walk  in  at  the  door.  The  perspective  is  all  wrong.” 


36  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


Then  followed  other  remarks  of  an  educational  kind ; 
and  when  we  came  to  those  piercingly  personal  vis- 
ions of  railway  stations  by  the  same  painter, — those 
rapid  sensations  of  steel  and  vapour, — our  laughter 
knew  no  bounds.  “I  say,  Marshall,  just  look  at  this 
wheel ; he  dipped  his  brush  into  cadmium  yellow  and 
whisked  it  round,  that’s  all.”  Nor  did  we  under- 
stand any  more  Renoir’s  rich  sensualities  of  tone ; nor 
did  the  mastery  with  which  he  achieves  an  absence 
of  shadow  appeal  to  us.  You  see  colour  and  light 
in  his  pictures  as  you  do  in  nature,  and  the  child’s 
criticism  of  a portrait — “Why  is  one  side  of  the  face 
black  ?”  is  answered.  There  was  a half  length  nude 
figure  of  a girl.  How  the  round  fresh  breasts  palpi- 
tate in  the  light!  such  a glorious  glow  of  whiteness 
was  attained  never  before.  But  we  saw  nothing  ex- 
cept that  the  eyes  were  out  of  drawing. 

For  art  was  not  for  us  then  as  it  is  now, — a mere 
emotion,  right  or  wrong  only  in  proportion  to  its 
intensity;  we  believed  then  in  the  grammar  of  art, 
perspective,  anatomy,  and  la  jambe  qui  porte;  and 
we  found  all  this  in  Julien’s  studio. 

A year  passed ; a year  of  art  and  dissipation — one 
part  art,  two  parts  dissipation.  We  mounted  and 
descended  at  pleasure  the  rounds  of  society’s  ladder. 
One  evening  we  would  spend  at  Constant’s,  Rue  de 
la  Gaiete,  in  the  company  of  thieves  and  housebreak- 
ers ; on  the  following  evening  we  were  dining  with  a 
duchess  or  a princess  in  the  Champs  Elysees.  And 
we  prided  ourselves  vastly  on  our  versatility  in  using 
with  equal  facility  the  language  of  the  “fence’s”  par- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  37 


lour,  and  that  of  the  literary  salon ; on  being  able  to 
appear  as  much  at  home  in  one  as  in  the  other.  De- 
lighted at  our  prowess,  we  often  whispered,  “The 
princess,  I swear,  would  not  believe  her  eyes  if  she 
saw  us  now ;”  and  then  in  terrible  slang  we  shouted 
a benediction  on  some  “crib”  that  was  going  to  be 
broken  into  that  evening.  And  we  thought  there  was 
something  very  thrilling  in  leaving  the  Rue  de  la 
Gaiete,  returning  home  to  dress,  and  presenting  our 
spotless  selves  to  the  elite.  And  we  succeeded  very 
well,  as  indeed  all  young  men  do  who  waltz  perfectly 
and  avoid  making  love  to  the  wrong  woman. 

But  the  excitement  of  climbing  up  and  down  the 
social  ladder  did  not  stave  off  our  craving  for  art; 
and  there  came  about  this  time  a very  decisive  event 
in  our  lives.  Marshall’s  last  and  really  grande  'pas- 
sion had  come  to  a violent  termination,  and  monetary 
difficulties  forced  him  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  painting 
as  a means  of  livelihood.  This  decided  me.  I asked 
him  to  come  and  live  with  me,  and  to  be  as  near  our 
studio  as  possible,  I took  an  appartement  in  the  Pas- 
sage des  Panoramas.  It  was  not  pleasant  that  your 
window  should  open,  not  to  the  sky,  but  to  an  un- 
clean prospect  of  glass  roofing;  nor  was  it  agreeable 
to  get  up  at  seven  in  the  morning;  and  ten  hours  of 
work  daily  are  trying  to  the  resolution  even  of  the 
best  intentioned.  But  we  had  sworn  to  forego  all 
pleasures  for  the  sake  of  art — table  d’hotes  in  the 
Rue  Maubeuge,  French  and  foreign  duchesses  in  the 
Champs  Elysees,  thieves  in  the  Rue  de  la  Gaiete. 

I was  entering  therefore  on  a duel  with  Marshall 


38  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


for  supremacy  in  an  art  for  which,  as  has  already 
been  said,  I possessed  no  qualifications.  It  will  read- 
ily be  understood  how  a mind  like  mine,  so  keenly 
alive  to  all  impulses,  and  so  unsupported  by  any 
moral  convictions,  would  suffer  in  so  keen  a contest 
waged  under  such  unequal  and  cruel  conditions.  It 
was  in  truth  a year  of  great  passion  and  great  de- 
spair. Defeat  is  bitter  when  it  comes  swiftly  and 
conclusively,  but  when  defeat  falls  by  inches  like 
the  fatal  pendulum  in  the  pit,  the  agony  is  a little 
out  of  reach  of  words  to  define.  It  was  even  so.  I 
remember  the  first  day  of  my  martyrdom.  The  clocks 
were  striking  eight;  we  chose  our  places,  got  into 
position.  After  the  first  hour,  I compared  my  draw- 
ing with  Marshall’s.  He  had,  it  is  true,  caught  the 
movement  of  the  figure  better  than  I,  but  the  charac- 
ter and  the  quality  of  his  work  was  miserable.  That 
of  mine  was  not.  I have  said  I possessed  no  artistic 
facility,  but  I did  not  say  faculty,  my  drawing  was 
never  common;  it  was  individual  in  feeling,  it  was 
refined.  I possessed  all  the  rarer  qualities,  but  not 
that  primary  power  without  which  all  is  valueless ; — 
I mean  the  talent  of  the  boy  who  can  knock  off  a 
clever  caricature  of  his  schoolmaster  or  make  a life- 
like sketch  of  his  favourite  horse  on  the  barn  door 
with  a piece  of  chalk. 

The  following  week  Marshall  made  a great  deal 
of  progress;  I thought  the  model  did  not  suit  me, 
and  hoped  for  better  luck  next  time.  That  time 
never  came,  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  month  I was 
left  toiling  hopelessly  in  the  distance.  Marshall’s 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  39 


mind,  though  shallow,  was  bright,  and  he  understood 
with  strange  ease  all  that  was  told  him,  and  was  able 
to  put  into  immediate  practice  the  methods  of  work 
inculcated  by  the  professors.  In  fact,  he  showed 
himself  singularly  capable  of  education ; little  could 
be  drawn  out,  but  a great  deal  could  be  put  in  (using 
the  word  in  its  modern,  not  in  its  original  sense). 
He  showed  himself  intensely  anxious  to  learn  and  to 
accept  all  that  was  said:  the  ideas  and  feelings  of 
others  ran  into  him  like  water  into  a bottle  whose 
neck  is  suddenly  stooped  below  the  surface  of  the 
stream.  He  was  an  ideal  pupil.  It  was  Marshall 
here,  it  was  Marshall  there,  and  soon  the  studio  was 
little  but  an  agitation  in  praise  of  him,  and  his  work, 
and  anxious  speculation  arose  as  to  the  medals  he 
would  obtain.  I continued  the  struggle  for  nine 
months.  I was  in  the  studio  at  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing ; I measured  my  drawing ; I plumbed  it  through- 
out; I sketched  in,  having  regard  to  la  jambe  qui 
porte;  I modelled  par  les  masses.  During  breakfast 
I considered  how  I should  work  during  the  after- 
noon ; at  night  I lay  awake  thinking  of  what  I might 
do  to  attain  a better  result.  But  my  efforts  availed 
me  nothing;  it  was  like  one  who,  falling,  stretches 
his  arms  for  help  and  grasps  the  yielding  air.  How 
terrible  are  the  languors  and  yearnings  of  impotence ! 
how  wearing!  what  an  aching  void  they  leave  in  the 
heart!  And  all  this  I suffered  until  the  burden  of 
unachieved  desire  grew  intolerable. 

I laid  down  my  charcoal  and  said,  “I  will  never 
draw  or  paint  again.”  That  vow  I have  kept. 


40  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


Surrender  brought  relief,  but  my  life  seemed  at  an 
end.  I looked  upon  a blank  space  of  years  desolate 
as  a grey  and  sailless  sea.  “What  shall  I do?”  I 
asked  myself,  and  my  heart  was  weary  and  hopeless. 
Literature  ? my  heart  did  not  answer  the  question  at 
once.  I was  too  broken  and  overcome  by  the  shock 
of  failure ; failure  precise  and  stern,  admitting  of  no 
equivocation.  I strove  to  read:  but  it  was  impos- 
sible to  sit  at  home  almost  within  earshot  of  the 
studio,  and  with  all  the  memories  of  defeat  still  ring- 
ing their  knells  in  my  heart.  Marshall’s  success 
clamoured  loudly  from  without;  every  day,  almost 
every  hour  of  the  day,  I heard  of  the  medals  which  he 
would  carry  off ; of  what  Lefevre  thought  of  his 
drawing  this  week,  of  Boulanger’s  opinion  of  his 
talent.  I do  not  wish  to  excuse  my  conduct,  but  I 
cannot  help  saying  that  Marshall  showed  me  neither 
consideration  nor  pity ; he  did  not  even  seem  to  un- 
derstand that  I was  suffering,  that  my  nerves  had 
been  terribly  shaken,  and  he  flaunted  his  superiority 
relentlessly  in  my  face — his  good  looks,  his  talents, 
his  popularity.  I did  not  know  then  how  little  these 
studio  successes  really  meant. 

Vanity?  no,  it  was  not  his  vanity  that  maddened 
me;  to  me  vanity  is  rarely  displeasing,  sometimes  it 
is  singularly  attractive;  but  by  a certain  insistence 
and  aggressiveness  in  the  details  of  life  he  allowed 
me  to  feel  that  I was  only  a means  for  the  moment,  a 
serviceable  thing  enough,  but  one  that  would  be  very 
soon  discarded  and  passed  over.  This  was  intoler- 
able. I broke  up  my  establishment.  By  so  doing  I 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  41 


involved  my  friend  in  grave  and  cruel  difficulties; 
by  this  action  I imperilled  his  future  prospects.  It 
was  a dastardly  action;  but  his  presence  had  growrt 
unbearable ; yes,  unbearable  in  the  fullest  acceptation 
of  the  word,  and  in  ridding  myself  of  him  I felt  as* 
if  a world  of  misery  were  being  lifted  from  me. 


CHAPTER  IV 


FTER  three  months  spent  in  a sweet  seaside 


JLJl  resort,  where  unoccupied  men  and  ladies  whose 
husbands  are  abroad  happily  congregate,  I returned 
to  Paris  refreshed. 

Marshall  and  I were  no  longer  on  speaking  terms, 
but  I saw  him  daily,  in  a new  overcoat,  of  a cut  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  his  figure,  sweeping  past  the  fans 
and  the  jet  ornaments  of  the  Passage  des  Panoramas. 
The  coat  interested  me,  and  I remembered  that  if  I 
had  not  broken  with  him  I should  have  been  able  to 
ask  him  some  essential  questions  concerning  it.  Of 
such  trifles  as  this  the  sincerest  friendships  are  made ; 
he  was  as  necessary  to  me  as  I to  him,  and  after  some 
demur  on  his  part  a reconciliation  was  effected. 

Then  I took  an  appartement  in  one  of  the  old 
houses  in  Rue  de  la  Tour  des  Dames,  for  the  win- 
dows there  overlooked  a bit  of  tangled  garden  with 
a few  dilapidated  statues.  It  was  Marshall  of  course 
who  undertook  the  task  of  furnishing,  and  he  lav- 
ished on  the  rooms  the  fancies  of  an  imagination  that 
suggested  the  collaboration  of  a courtesan  of  high 
degree  and  a fifth-rate  artist.  Nevertheless,  our 
salon  was  a pretty  resort — English  cretonne  of  a very 
happy  design — vine  leaves,  dark  green  and  golden, 
broken  up  by  many  fluttering  jays.  The  walls  were 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  4b 


stretched  with  this  colourful  cloth,  and  the  arm- 
chairs and  the  couches  were  to  match.  The  drawing- 
room was  in  cardinal  red,  hung  from  the  middle  of 
the  ceiling  and  looped  up  to  give  the  appearance  of  a 
tent ; a faun,  in  terra  cotta,  laughed  in  the  red  gloom, 
and  there  were  Turkish  couches  and  lamps.  In  an- 
other room  you  faced  an  altar,  a Buddhist  temple,  a 
statue  of  the  Apollo,  and  a bust  of  Shelley.  The  bed- 
rooms were  made  unconventual  with  cushioned  seats 
and  rich  canopies;  and  in  picturesque  corners  there 
were  censers,  great  church  candlesticks,  and  palms; 
then  think  of  the  smell  of  burning  incense  and  wax 
and  you  will  have  imagined  the  sentiment  of  our 
apartment  in  Rue  de  la  Tour  des  Dames.  I bought 
a Persian  cat,  and  a python  that  made  a monthly  meal 
off  guinea  pigs ; Marshall,  who  did  not  care  for  pets, 
filled  his  rooms  with  flowers — he  used  to  sleep  be- 
neath a tree  of  gardenias  in  full  bloom.  We  were  so, 
Henry  Marshall  and  Edwin  Dayne,  when  we  went  to 
live  in  76,  Rue  de  la  Tour  des  Dames,  we  hoped  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives.  He  was  to  paint,  I was  to  write. 

Before  leaving  for  the  seaside  I had  bought  some 
volumes  of  Hugo  and  De  Musset;  but  in  pleasant, 
sunny  Boulogne  poetry  went  flat,  and  it  was  not  until 
I got  into  my  new  rooms  that  I began  to  read  seri- 
ously. Books  are  like  individuals ; you  know  at  once 
if  they  are  going  to  create  a sense  within  the  sense, 
to  fever,  to  madden  you  in  blood  and  brain,  or  if  they 
will  merely  leave  you  indifferent,  or  irritable,  having 
unpleasantly  disturbed  sweet  intimate  musings  as 
might  a draught  from  an  open  window.  Many  are 


44  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


the  reasons  for  love,  but  I confess  I only  love  woman 
or  book,  when  it  is  as  a voice  of  conscience,  never 
heard  before,  heard  suddenly,  a voice  I am  at  once 
endearingly  intimate  with.  This  announces  feminine 
depravities  in  my  affections.  I am  feminine,  mor- 
bid, perverse.  But  above  all  perverse,  almost  every- 
thing perverse  interests,  fascinates  me.  Wordsworth 
is  the  only  simple-minded  man  I ever  loved,  if  thai 
great  austere  mind,  chill  even  as  the  Cumberland 
year,  can  be  called  simple.  But  Hugo  is  not  perverse, 
nor  even  personal.  Reading  him  was  like  being  in 
church  with  a strident-voiced  preacher  shouting  from 
out  of  a terribly  sonorous  pulpit.  “Les  Orientales 
An  East  of  painted  card-board,  tin  daggers, 
and  a military  band  playing  the  Turkish  patrol  in  the 
Palais  Royal  . . . The  verse  is  grand,  noble,  tre- 
mendous; I liked  it,  I admired  it,  but  it  did  not — 
I repeat  the  phrase — awake  a voice  of  conscience 
within  me;  And  even  the  structure  of  the  verse  was 
too  much  in  the  style  of  public  buildings  to  please  me. 
Of  “Les  Feuilles  d’Automne”  and  “Les  Chants  du 
Crepuscule”  I remember  nothing.  Ten  lines,  fifty 
lines  of  “La  Legende  des  Sieeles,”  and  I always  think 
that  it  is  the  greatest  poetry  I have  ever  read,  but 
after  a few  pages  I invariably  put  the  book  down 
and  forget  it.  Having  composed  more  verses  than 
any  man  that  ever  lived,  Hugo  can  only  be  taken  in 
the  smallest  doses;  if  you  repeat  any  passage  to  a 
friend  across  a cafe  table,  you  are  both  appalled  by 
the  splendour  of  the  imagery,  by  the  thunder  of  the 
syllables. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  45 

“Quel  dieu,  quel  moissonneur  dans  Peternel  et6 
Avait  s*en  allant  negligemment  jete 
Cette  faucille  d*or  dans  les  champs  des  etoiles. 99 

But  if  I read  an  entire  poem  I never  escape  that 
sensation  of  the  ennui  which  is  inherent  in  the  gaud 
and  the  glitter  of  the  Italian  or  Spanish  improvisa- 
tore.  There  never  was  anything  French  about 
Hugo’s  genius.  Hugo  was  a cross  between  an  Ital- 
ian improvisatore  and  a metaphysical  German  stu- 
dent. Take  another  verse — 

“Le  clair  de  lune  bleu  qui  baigne  1 ’horizon. 99 

Without  a “like”  or  an  “as,”  by  a mere  statement  of 
fact,  the  picture,  nay  more,  the  impression,  is  pro- 
duced. I confess  I have  a weakness  for  the  poem 
which  this  line  concludes — “La  fete  chez  Therese;” 
but  admirable  as  it  is  with  its  picture  of  mediaeval 
life,  there  is  in  it,  like  in  all  Hugo’s  work,  a sense 
of  fabrication  that  dries  up  emotion  in  my  heart.  He 
shouts  and  raves  over  poor  humanity,  while  he  is 
gathering  coppers  for  himself ; he  goes  in  for  an  all- 
round  patronage  of  the  Almighty  in  a last  stanza ; but 
of  the  two  immortalities  he  evidently  considers  his 
own  the  most  durable ; he  does  not,  however,  become 
really  intolerable  until  he  gets  on  the  subject  of  little 
children;  he  sings  their  innocence  in  great  bombast, 
but  he  is  watching  them ; the  poetry  over,  the  crowd 
dispersed,  he  will  appear  a veritable  Mr.  Hyde. 

The  first  time  I read  of  une  bouche  S! ombre  I 
was  astonished,  nor  the  second  nor  third  repetition 


46  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


produced  a change  in  my  mood  of  mind ; but  sooner 
or  later  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  conviction,  that 
of  the  two  “the  rosy  fingers  of  the  dawn,”  although 
some  three  thousand  years  older  was  younger,  truer, 
and  more  beautiful.  Homer’s  similes  can  never  grow 
old ; une  bouche  d’ ombre  was  old  the  first  time  it  was 
said.  It  is  the  birthplace  and  the  grave  of  Hugo’s 
genius. 

Of  Alfred  de  Musset  I had  heard  a great  deal. 
Marshall  and  the  Marquise  were  in  the  habit  of  read- 
ing him  in  moments  of  relaxation,  they  had  marked 
their  favourite  passages,  so  he  came  to  me  highly 
recommended.  Nevertheless,  I made  but  little  prog- 
ress in  his  poetry.  Hie  modernisms  were  out  of  tune 
with  the  present  strain  of  my  aspirations,  and  I did 
not  find  the  unexpected  word  and  the  eccentricities  of 
expression  which  were,  and  are  still,  so  dear  to  me. 
I am  not  a purist ; an  error  of  diction  is  very  pardon- 
able if  it  does  not  err  on  the  side  of  the  commonplace ; 
the  commonplace,  the  natural,  is  constitutionally  ab- 
horrent to  me;  and  I have  never  been  able  to  read 
with  any  very  thorough  sense  of  pleasure  even  the 
opening  lines  of  “Rolla,”  that  splendid  lyrical  out- 
burst. What  I remember  of  it  now  are  those  two 
odious  chevilles — marchait  et  respirait , and  Astarte 
fille  de  Vonde  amere;  nor  does  the  fact  that  amere 
rhymes  with  mere  condone  the  offence,  although  it 
proves  that  even  Musset  felt  that  perhaps  the  rich- 
ness of  the  rhyme  might  render  tolerable  the  intoler- 
able. And  it  is  to  my  credit  that  the  Spanish  love 
songs  moved  me  not  at  all;  and  it  was  not  until  I 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  47 


read  that  magnificently  grotesque  poem  “La  Ballade 
a la  Lune,”  that  I could  be  induced  to  bend  the  knee 
and  acknowledge  Musset  a poet. 

I still  read  and  spoke  of  Shelley  with  a rapture  of 
joy, — ie  was  still  my  soul.  But  this  craft,  fashioned 
of  mother  o’  pearl,  with  starlight  at  the  helm  and 
moonbeams  for  sails,  suddenly  ran  on  a reef  and 
went  down,  not  out  of  sight,  but  out  of  the  agitation 
of  actual  life.  The  reef  was  Gautier ; I read  “Mdlle. 
de  Maupin.”  The  reaction  was  as  violent  as  it  was 
sudden.  I was  weary  of  spiritual  passion,  and  this 
great  exaltation  of  the  body  above  the  soul  at  once 
conquered  and  led  me  captive ; this  plain  scorn  of  a 
world  as  exemplified  in  lacerated  saints  and  a cruci- 
fied Redeemer  opened  up  to  me  illimitable  prospects 
of  fresh  beliefs,  and  therefore  new  joys  in  things 
and  new  revolts  against  all  that  had  come  to  form  part 
and  parcel  of  the  commonalty  of  mankind.  Till  now 
I had  not  even  remotely  suspected  that  a deification  of 
flesh  and  fleshly  desire  was  possible,  Shelley’s  teach- 
ing had  been,  while  accepting  the  body,  to  dream  of 
the  soul  as  a star,  and  so  preserve  our  ideal ; but  now 
suddenly  I saw,  with  delightful  clearness  and  with 
intoxicating  conviction,  that  by  looking  without 
shame  and  accepting  with  love  the  flesh,  I might  raise 
it  to  as  high  a place  and  within  as  divine  a light  as 
even  the  soul  had  been  set  in.  The  ages  were  as  an 
aureole,  and  I stood  as  if  enchanted  before  the  noble 
nakedness  of  the  elder  gods : not  the  infamous  nudity 
that  sex  has  preserved  in  this  modern  world,  but  the 
clean  pagan  nude, — a love  of  life  and  beauty,  the 


48  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


broad  fair  breast  of  a boy,  the  long  flanks,  the  head 
thrown  back;  the  bold  fearless  gaze  of  Venus  is  love- 
lier than  the  lowered  glance  of  the  Virgin,  and  I cried 
with  my  master  that  the  blood  that  flowed  upon 
Mount  Calvary  “ne  ma  jamais  baigne  dans  ses  flats/' 

I will  not  turn  to  the  book  to  find  the  exact  words 
of  this  sublime  vindication,  for  ten  years  I have  not 
read  the  Word  that  has  become  so  inexpressibly  a 
part  of  me;  and  shall  I not  refrain  as  Mdlle.  de 
Maupin  refrained,  knowing  well  that  the  face  of  love 
may  not  be  twice  seen?  Great  was  my  conversion. 
None  more  than  I had  cherished  mystery  and  dream : 
my  life  until  now  had  been  but  a mist  which  revealed 
as  each  cloud  wreathed  and  went  out,  the  red  of 
some  strange  flower  or  some  tall  peak,  blue  and 
snowy  and  fairylike  in  lonely  moonlight;  and  now 
so  great  was  my  conversion  that  the  more  brutal  the 
outrage  offered  to  my  ancient  ideal,  the  rarer  and 
keener  was  my  delight.  I read  almost  without  fear : 
“My  dreams  were  of  naked  youths  riding  white 
horses  through  mountain  passes,  there  were  no  clouds 
in  my  dreams,  or  if  there  were  any,  they  were  clouds 
that  had  been  cut  out  as  if  in  cardboard  with  a pair 
of  scissors.” 

I had  shaken  off  all  belief  in  Christianity  early  in 
life,  and  had  suffered  much.  Shelley  had  replaced 
faith  by  reason,  but  I still  suffered:  but  here  was  a 
new  creed  which  proclaimed  the  divinity  of  the  body, 
and  for  a long  time  the  reconstruction  of  all  my 
theories  of  life  on  a purely  pagan  basis  occupied  my 
whole  attention.  The  exquisite  outlines  of  the  mar- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  49 


vellous  castle,  the  romantic  woods,  the  horses  moving, 
the  lovers  leaning  to  each  other’s  faces  enchanted  me ; 
and  then  the  indescribably  beautiful  description  of 
the  performance  of  As  you  like  it,  and  the  supreme 
relief  and  perfect  assuagement  it  brings  to  Rodolph, 
who  then  sees  Mdlle.  de  Maupin  for  the  first  time  in 
woman’s  attire.  If  she  were  dangerously  beautiful 
as  a man,  that  beauty  is  forgotten  in  the  rapture  and 
praise  of  her  unmatchable  woman’s  loveliness. 

But  if  Mdlle.  de  Maupin  was  the  highest  peak,  it 
was  not  the  entire  mountain.  The  range  was  long, 
and  each  summit  offered  to  the  eye  a new  and  delight- 
ful prospect.  There  were  the  numerous  tales, — tales 
as  perfect  as  the  world  has  ever  seen;  “La  Morte 
Amoureuse,”  “Jettatura,”  “Une  Nuit  de  Cleopatre,” 
etc.,  and  then  the  very  diamonds  of  the  crown,  “Les 
Emaux  et  Camees,”  “La  Symphonie  en  Blanc  Ma- 
jeure,”  in  which  the  adjective  blanc  and  blanche  is 
repeated  with  miraculous  felicity  in  each  stanza. 
And  then  Contralto, — 

“Mais  seulement  il  se  transpose 
Et  passant  de  la  forme  au  son, 

Trouvant  dans  la  metamorphose 
La  jeune  fille  et  le  gar§on. 99 

Transpose , — a word  never  before  used  except  in 
musical  application,  and  now  for  the  first  time  ap- 
plied to  material  form,  and  with  a beauty-giving 
touch  that  Phidias  might  be  proud  of.  I know  not 
how  I quote;  such  is  my  best  memory  of  the  stanza, 
and  here,  that  is  more  important  than  the  stanza 


50  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


itself.  And  that  other  stanza,  “The  Chatelaine  and 
the  Page;”  and  that  other,  “The  Doves;”  and  that 
other,  “Romeo  and  Juliet,”  and  the  exquisite  cadence 
of  the  line  ending  “balcon”  Novelists  have  often 
shown  how  a love  passion  brings  misery,  despair, 
death,  and  ruin  upon  a life,  but  I know  of  no  story 
of  the  good  or  evil  influence  awakened  by  the  chance 
reading  of  a book,  the  chain  of  consequences  so  far- 
reaching,  so  intensely  dramatic.  Never  shall  I open 
these  books  again,  but  were  I to  live  for  a thousand 
years,  their  power  in  my  soul  would  remain  un- 
shaken. I am  what  they  made  me.  Belief  in  hu- 
manity, pity  for  the  poor,  hatred  of  injustice,  all 
that  Shelley  gave  may  never  have  been  very  deep  or 
earnest;  but  I did  love,  I did  believe.  Gautier  de- 
stroyed these  illusions.  He  taught  me  that  our 
boasted  progress  is  but  a pitfall  into  which  the  race 
is  falling,  and  I learned  that  the  correction  of  form 
is  the  highest  ideal,  and  I accepted  the  plain,  simple 
conscience  of  the  pagan  world  as  the  perfect  solution 
of  the  problem  that  had  vexed  me  so  long;  I cried, 
“ave”  to  it  all:  lust,  cruelty,  slavery,  and  I would 
have  held  down  my  thumbs  in  the  Colosseum  that  a 
hundred  gladiators  might  die  and  wash  me  free  of  my 
Christian  soul  with  their  blood. 

The  study  of  Baudelaire  aggravated  the  course  of 
the  disease.  No  longer  is  it  the  grand  barbaric  face 
of  Gautier;  now  it  is  the  clean  shaven  face  of  the 
mock  priest,  the  slow,  cold  eyes  and  the  sharp,  cun- 
ning sneer  of  the  cynical  libertine  who  will  be 
tempted  that  he  may  better  know  the  worthlessness 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  51 


of  temptation.  “Les  Fleurs  du  Mai !”  beautiful  flow- 
ers, beautiful  in  sublime  decay.  Wbat  great  record 
is  yours,  and  were  Hell  a reality  bow  many  souls 
would  we  find  wreathed  with  your  poisonous  blos- 
soms. The  village  maiden  goes  to  her  Faust;  the 
children  of  the  nineteenth  century  go  to  you,  O Bau- 
delaire, and  having  tasted  of  your  deadly  delight  all 
hope  of  repentance  is  vain.  Flowers,  beautiful  in 
your  sublime  decay,  I press  you  to  my  lips;  these 
northern  solitudes,  far  from  the  rank  Parisian  gar- 
den where  I gathered  you,  are  full  of  you,  even  as 
the  sea-shell  of  the  sea,  and  the  sun  that  sets  on  this 
wild  moorland  evokes  the  magical  verse : — 

“Un  soir  fait  de  rose  et  de  bleu  mystique 
Nous  echangerons  un  eclair  unique 
Comme  un  long  sanglot  tout  charge  d’adieux. 99 

For  months  I fed  on  the  mad  and  morbid  litera- 
ture that  the  enthusiasm  of  1830  called  into  exist- 
ence. The  gloomy  and  sterile  little  pictures  of  “Gas- 
pard  de  la  Nuit,”  or  the  elaborate  criminality,  “Les 
Contes  Immoraux,”  laboriously  invented  lifeless 
things  with  creaky  joints,  pitiful  lay  figures  that  fall 
to  dust  as  soon  as  the  book  is  closed,  and  in  the  dust 
only  the  figures  of  the  terrible  ferryman  and  the 
unfortunate  Dora  remain.  “Madame  Potiphar”  cost 
me  forty  francs,  and  I never  read  more  than  a few 
pages. 

Like  a pike  after  minnows,  I pursued  the  works  of 
Les  Jeune  France  along  the  quays  and  through  every 
passage  in  Paris.  The  money  spent  was  consider- 


52  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


able,  the  waste  of  time  enormous.  One  man’s  soli- 
tary work  (he  died  very  young,  but  he  is  known  to 
have  excelled  all  in  length  of  his  hair  and  the  redness 
of  his  waistcoats)  resisted  my  efforts  to  capture  it. 
At  last  I caught  sight  of  the  precious  volume  in  a 
shop  on  the  Quai  Voltaire.  Trembling  I asked  the 
price.  The  man  looked  at  me  earnestly  and  an- 
swered, “A  hundred  and  fifty  francs.”  No  doubt  it 
was  a great  deal  of  money,  but  I paid  it  and  rushed 
home  to  read.  Many  that  had  gone  before  had 
proved  disappointing,  and  I was  obliged  to  admit  had 
contributed  little  towards  my  intellectual  advance- 
ment; but  this — this  that  I had  heard  about  so  long 
-—not  a queer  phrase,  not  an  outrage  of  any  sort  of 
kind,  not  even  a new  blasphemy,  nothing,  that  is  to 
say,  nothing  but  a hundred  and  fifty  francs.  Hav- 
ing thus  rudely,  and  very  pikelike,  knocked  my  nose 
against  the  bottom — this  book  was,  most  assuredly, 
the  bottom  of  the  literature  of  1830 — I came  up  to 
the  surface  and  began  to  look  around  my  contem- 
poraries for  something  to  read. 

I have  remarked  before  on  the  instinctiveness  of 
my  likes  and  dislikes,  on  my  susceptibility  to  the 
sound  of  and  even  to  the  appearance  of  a name  upon 
paper.  I was  repelled  by  Leconte  de  Lisle  from  the 
first,  and  it  was  only  by  a very  deliberate  outrage  to 
my  feelings  that  I bought  and  read  “Les  Poemes  An- 
tiques,” and  “Les  Poemes  Barbares ;”  I was  deceived 
in  nothing,  all  I had  anticipated  I found — long,  deso- 
late boredom.  Leconte  de  Lisle  produces  on  me  the 
effect  of  a walk  through  the  new  Law  Courts,  with 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  53 


a steady  but  not  violent  draught  sweeping  from  end 
to  end.  Oh,  the  vile  old  professor  of  rhetoric!  and 
when  I saw  him  the  last  time  I was  in  Paris,  his  head 
— a declaration  of  righteousness,  a cross  between  a 
Caesar  by  Gerome,  and  an  archbishop  of  a provincial 
town,  set  all  my  natural  antipathy  instantly  on  edge. 
Hugo  is  often  pompous,  shallow,  empty,  unreal,  but 
he  is  at  least  an  artist,  and  when  he  thinks  of  the 
artist  and  forgets  the  prophet,  as  in  “Les  Chansons 
des  Hues  et  des  Bois,”  his  juggling  with  the  verse  is 
magnificent,  superb. 

(,Comme  un  geai  sur  l’arbre 
Le  roi  se  tient  fier; 

Son  cceur  est  de  marbre, 

Son  ventre  est  de  chair. 

* 'On  a pour  sa  nuque 
Et  son  front  vermeil 
Fait  une  perruque 
Avec  le  soleil. 

“II  regne,  il  veget© 

Effroyable  z6ro; 

Sur  lui  se  projette 
L ’ombre  du  bourreae. 

“Son  trone  est  une  tombe, 

Et  sur  le  pave 
Quelque  chose  en  tombe 
Qu’on  n’a  point  lave. 99 


But  how  to  get  the  first  line  of  the  last  stanza  into 
five  syllables  I cannot  think.  If  ever  I meet  with  the 
volume  again  I will  look  it  out  and  see  how  that  rude 


M CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


dompteur  de  syllables  managed  it.  But  stay,  son 
trone  est  la  tornbe ; that  makes  the  verse,  and  the  gen- 
eralisation would  be  in  the  “line”  of  Hugo.  Hugo — 
how  impossible  it  is  to  speak  of  French  literature 
without  referring  to  him.  Let  these,  however,  be 
the  concluding  words:  he  thought  that  by  saying 
everything,  and  saying  everything  twenty  times  over, 
he  would  for  ever  render  impossible  the  advent  of 
another  great  poet.  But  a work  of  art  is  valuable, 
and  pleasurable  in  proportion  to  its  rarity ; one 
beautiful  book  of  verses  is  better  than  twenty  books 
of  beautiful  verses.  This  is  an  absolute  and  incon- 
testable truth ; a child  can  burlesque  this  truth — one 
verse  is  better  than  the  whole  poem : a word  is  better 
than  the  line;  a letter  is  better  than  the  word;  but 
the  truth  is  not  thereby  affected.  Hugo  never  had 
the  good  fortune  to  write  a bad  book,  nor  even  a 
single  bad  line,  so  not  having  time  to  read  all,  the 
future  will  read  none.  What  immortality  would  be 
gained  by  the  destruction  of  one  half  of  his  mag- 
nificent works;  what  oblivion  is  secured  by  the  pub- 
lication of  these  posthumous  volumes. 

To  return  to  the  Leconte  de  Lisle.  See  his  “Disr 
cours  de  Reception.”  Is  it  possible  to  imagine  any- 
thing more  absurdly  arid?  Rhetoric  of  this  sort, 
“des  vers  d’or  sur  une  ecume  d’airain”  and  such 
sententious  platitudes  (speaking  of  the  realists), 
“ Les  epidemies  de  cette  nature  passent,  et  le  genie 
demeure” 

Theodore  de  Banville.  At  first  I thought  him 
cold,  tinged  with  the  rhetorical  ice  of  the  Leconte  de 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  55 


Lisle.  He  had  no  new  creed  to  proclaim  nor  old 
creed  to  denounce,  the  inherent  miseries  of  human 
life  did  not  seem  to  touch  him,  and  of  the  languors 
and  ardours  of  animal  or  spiritual  passion  there  are 
none.  What  is  there  ? a pure,  clear  song,  an  in- 
stinctive, incurable  and  lark-like  love  of  the  song. 
The  lily  is  white,  and  the  rose  is  red,  such  knowledge 
of,  such  observation  of  nature  is  enough  for  the  poet, 
and  he  sings  and  he  trills,  there  is  silver  magic  in 
every  note,  and  the  song  as  it  ascends  rings,  and  all 
the  air  quivers  with  the  everwidening  circle  of  the 
echoes,  sighing  and  dying  out  of  the  ear  until  the 
last  faintness  is  reached,  and  the  glad  rhymes  clash 
and  dash  forth  again  on  their  aerial  way.  Banville 
is  not  the  poet,  he  is  the  bard.  The  great  questions 
that  agitate  the  mind  of  man  have  not  troubled  him, 
life,  death,  and  love  he  only  perceives  as  stalks 
whereon  he  may  weave  his  glittering  web  of  living 
words.  Whatever  his  moods  may  be,  he  is  lyrical. 
His  wit  flies  out  on  clear-cut,  swallow-like  wings  as 
when  he  said,  in  speaking  of  Paul  Alexis7  book  “Le 
Besoin  d? aimer/7  “Vous  avez  trouvez  un  titre  assez 
laid  pour  faire  reculer  les  divines  etoiles”  I know 
not  what  instrument  to  compare  with  his  verse.  I 
suppose  I should  say  a flute ; but  it  seems  to  me  more 
like  a marvellously  toned  piano.  His  hands  pass 
over  the  keys,  and  he  produces  Chopin-like  music. 

It  is  now  well  known  that  French  verse  is  not 
seventy  years  old.  If  it  was  Hugo  who  invented 
French  rhyme  it  was  Banville  who  broke  up  the 
couplet.  Hugo  had  perhaps  ventured  to  place  the 


56  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


pause  between  tbe  adjective  and  its  noun,  but  it  wa?» 
not  until  Banville  wrote  tbe  line,  “Elle  filait  pen- 
sivement  la  blanche  laine  ” that  tbe  csesura  received 
its  final  coup  de  grace . Tbis  verse  bas  been  probably 
more  imitated  than  any  other  verse  in  tbe  French 
language.  Pensivement  was  replaced  by  some  simi- 
lar four-syllable  adverb,  Elle  tirait  nonchaZamment 
les  bas  de  sole,  etc . It  was  the  beginning  of  tbe  end. 

I read  tbe  French  poets  of  tbe  modem  school — - 
Coppee,  Mendes,  Leon  Diex,  Verlaine,  Jose  Maria 
Heredia,  Mallarme,  Rechepin,  Villiers  de  Tlsle 
Adam.  Coppee,  as  may  be  imagined,  I only  was 
capable  of  appreciating  in  bis  first  manner,  when  be 
wrote  those  exquisite  but  purely  artistic  sonnets  “La 
Tulipe”  and  “Le  Lys.”  In  tbe  latter  a room  deco- 
rated with  daggers,  armour,  jewellery  and  china  is 
beautifully  described,  and  it  is  only  in  the  last  line 
that  the  lily  which  animates  and  gives  life  to  tbe 
whole  is  introduced.  But  tbe  exquisite  poetic  per- 
ceptivity Coppee  showed  in  bis  modern  poems,  tbe 
certainty  with  which  he  raised  the  commonest  sub- 
ject, investing  it  with  sufficient  dignity  for  his  pur- 
pose, escaped  me  wholly,  and  I could  not  but  turn 
with  horror  from  such  poems  as  “La  Nourrice”  and 
“Le  Petit  Epicier.”  How  anyone  could  bring  him- 
self to  acknowledge  the  vulgar  details  of  our  vulgar 
age  I could  not  understand.  The  fiery  glory  of  Jose 
Maria  de  Heredia,  on  the  contrary,  filled  me  with  en- 
thusiasm— ruins  and  sand,  shadow  and  silhouette  of 
palms  and  pillars,  negroes,  crimson,  swords,  silence, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  57 


and  arabesques.  As  great  copper  pans  go  the  clan- 
gour of  the  rhymes. 

“Entre  le  ciel  qui  brule  et  la  mer  qui  moutonne, 

Au  somnolent  soleil  d’un  midi  monotone, 

Tu  songes,  O guerriere,  aux  vieux  conquistadors; 

Et  dans  l’enervement  des  nuits  chaudes  et  calmes, 
Bergant  ta  gloire  eteinte,  O citl,  tu  t’endors 
Sous  les  palmiers,  au  long  fremissement  des  palmes.  ’T 

Catulle  Mendes,  a perfect  realisation  of  his  name, 
of  his  pale  hair,  of  his  fragile  face  illuminated  with 
the  idealism  of  a depraved  woman.  He  takes  you  by 
the  arm,  by  the  hand,  he  leans  towards  you,  his  words 
are  caresses,  his  fervour  is  delightful,  and  listening 
to  him  is  as  sweet  as  drinking  a fair  perfumed  white 
wine.  All  he  says  is  false — the  book  he  has  just  read, 
the  play  he  is  writing,  the  woman  who  loves  him,  . . . 
he  buys  a packet  of  bonbons  in  the  streets  and  eats 
them,  and  it  is  false.  An  exquisite  artist ; physically 
and  spiritually  he  is  art;  he  is  the  muse  herself,  or 
rather,  he  is  one  of  the  minions  of  the  muse.  Pass- 
ing from  flower  to  flower  he  goes,  his  whole  nature 
pulsing  with  butterfly  voluptuousness.  He  has  writ- 
ten poems  as  good  as  Hugo,  as  good  as  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  as  good  as  Banville,  as  good  as  Baudelaire,  as 
good  as  Gautier,  as  good  as  Coppee;  he  never  wrote 
an  ugly  line  in  his  life,  but  he  never  wrote  a line  that 
some  one  of  his  brilliant  contemporaries  might  not 
have  written.  He  has  produced  good  work  of  all 
kinds  “et  voila  tout.”  Every  generation,  every  coun- 
try, has  its  Catulle  Mendes.  Robert  Buchanan  is 


58  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


ours,  only  in  the  adaptation  Scotch  gruel  has  been 
substituted  for  perfumed  white  wine.  No  more  de- 
lightful talker  than  Mendes,  no  more  accomplished 
litterateur , no  more  fluent  and  translucid  critic.  I re- 
member the  great  moonlights  of  the  Place  Pigale , 
when,  on  leaving  the  cafe,  he  would  take  me  by  the 
arm,  and  expound  Hugo’s  or  Zola’s  last  book,  think- 
ing as  he  spoke  of  the  Greek  sophists.  There  were  for 
contrast  Mallarme’s  Tuesday  evenings,  a few  friends 
sitting  round  the  hearth,  the  lamp  on  the  table.  I 
have  met  none  whose  conversation  was  more  fruitful, 
but  with  the  exception  of  his  early  verses  I cannot  say 
I ever  frankly  enjoyed  his  poetry.  When  I knew  him 
he  had  published  the  celebrated  “L’Apres  Midi  d’un 
Faun:”  the  first  poem  written  in  accordance  with  the 
theory  of  symbolism.  But  when  it  was  given  to  me 
(this  marvellous  brochure  furnished  with  strange  il- 
lustrations and  wonderful  tassels),  I thought  it  ab- 
surdly obscure.  Since  then,  however,  it  has  been 
rendered  by  force  of  contrast  with  the  brain-curdling 
enigmas  the  author  has  since  published  a marvel  of 
lucidity;  and  were  I to  read  it  now  I should  appre- 
ciate its  many  beauties.  It  bears  the  same  relation 
to  the  author’s  later  work  as  Rienzi  to  The  W alky rie . 
But  what  is  symbolism?  Vulgarly  speaking,  saying 
the  opposite  to  what  you  mean.  For  example,  you 
want  to  say  that  music  which  is  the  new  art,  is  replac- 
ing the  old  art,  which  is  poetry.  First  symbol:  a 
house  in  which  there  is  a funeral,  the  pall  extends 
over  the  furniture.  The  house  is  poetry,  poetry  is 
dead.  Second  symbol : <cnotre  vieux  grimoire”  grim- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  59 

oire  is  the  parchment,  parchment  is  used  for  writing,, 
therefore,  grimoire  is  the  symbol  for  literature,  “d! ou 
sexdltent  les  milliers  ” thousands  of  what  ? of  letters 
of  course.  We  have  heard  a great  deal  in  England 
of  Browning  obscurity.  The  “Red  Cotton  Nightcap 
Country”  is  child’s  play  compared  to  a sonnet  by  a 
determined  symbolist  such  as  Mallarme,  or  better  still 
his  disciple  Ghil  who  has  added  to  the  difficulties  of 
symbolism  those  of  poetic  instrumentation.  For  ac- 
cording to  M.  Ghil  and  his  organ  Les  Ecrits  pour 
V Art,  it  would  appear  that  the  syllables  of  the  French 
language  evoke  in  us  the  sensations  of  different 
colours ; consequently  the  timbre  of  the  different  in- 
struments. The  vowel  u corresponds  to  the  colour 
yellow,  and  therefore  to  the  sound  of  flutes. 

Arthur  Rimbaud  was,  it  is  true,  first  in  the  field 
with  these  pleasant  and  genial  theories ; but  M.  Ghil 
informs  us  that  Rimbaud  was  mistaken  in  many 
things,  particularly  in  coupling  the  sound  of  the 
vowel  u with  the  colour  green  instead  of  with  the 
colour  yellow.  M.  Ghil  has  corrected  this  very  stupid 
blunder  and  many  others ; and  his  instrumentation  in 
his  last  volume,  “Le  Geste  Ingenu,”  may  be  consid- 
ered as  complete  and  definitive.  The  work  is  dedicated 
to  Mallarme,  “Pere  et  seigneur  des  ors,  des  pierreries, 
et  des  poissons,”  and  other  works  are  to  follow : — the 
six  tomes  of  “Legendes  de  Reves  et  de  Sangs,”  the 
innumerable  tomes  of  “La  Glose,”  and  the  single  tome 
of  “La  Loi.” 

And  that  man  Gustave  Kahn,  who  takes  the  French 
language  as  a violin,  and  lets  the  bow  of  his  emotion 


60  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


run  at  wild  will  upon  it  producing  strange  acute 
strains,  unpremeditated  harmonies  comparable  to 
nothing  that  I know  of  but  some  Hungarian  rhap- 
sody; verses  of  seventeen  syllables  interwoven  with 
verses  of  eight,  and  even  nine,  masculine  rhymes, 
seeking  strange  union  with  feminine  rhymes  in  the 
middle  of  the  line — a music  sweet,  subtil,  and 
epicene ; the  half-note,  the  inflexion,  but  not  the  full 
tone — as  “se  fondre,  o souvenir , des  lys  acres  delices.” 

Se  penchant  vers  les  dahlias, 

Des  paons  cabrient  des  rosace  lunaire 
L ’assoupissement  des  branches  venere 
Son  pale  visage  aux  mourants  dahlias. 

Elle  ecoute  au  loin  les  breves  musiques 
Nuit  claire  aux  ramures  d 'accords, 

Et  la  lassitude  a berce  son  corps 
Au  rhy  thine  odorant  des  pures  musiques. 

Les  paons  ont  dresse  la  rampe  occellSe 
Pour  la  descente  de  ses  yeux  vers  le  tapis 
De  choses  et  de  sens 
Qui  va  vers  1 'horizon,  parure  vemiculee 
De  son  corps  alangui 
En  ame  se  tapit 

Le  flou  desir  molli  de  recits  et  d'encens. 

I laughed  at  these  verbal  eccentricities,  but  they 
"were  not  without  their,  effect,  and  that  effect  was  a 
demoralising  one ; for  in  me  they  aggravated  the  fever 
of  the  unknown,  and  whetted  my  appetite  for  the 
strange,  abnormal  and  unhealthy  in  art.  Hence  all 
pallidities  of  thought  and  desire  were  eagerly  wel- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  61 


corned,  and  Verlaine  became  my  poet.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  first  enchantment  of  “Les  Fetes  Galantes.” 
Here  all  is  twilight. 

The  royal  magnificences  of  the  sunset  have  passed, 
the  solemn  beatitude  of  the  night  is  at  hand  but  not 
yet  here;  the  ways  are  veiled  with  shadow,  and  lit 
with  dresses,  white,  that  the  hour  has  touched  with 
blue,  yellow,  green,  mauve,  and  undecided  purple; 
the  voices  ? strange  contraltos ; the  forms  ? not  those 
of  men  or  women,  but  mystic,  hybrid  creatures,  with 
hands  nervous  and  pale,  and  eyes  charged  with  eager 
and  fitful  light  . . . “un  soir  equivoque  d’ automne,” 
. . . “les  belles  pendent  reveuses  a nos  bras”  . . . and 
they  whisper  “les  mots  speciaux  et  tout  bas” 

Gautier  sang  to  his  antique  lyre  praise  of  the  flesh 
and  contempt  of  the  soul ; Baudelaire  on  a mediaeval 
organ  chaunted  his  unbelief  in  goodness  and  truth 
and  his  hatred  of  life.  But  Verlaine  advances  one 
step  further : hate  is  to  him  as  commonplace  as  love, 
unfaith  as  vulgar  as  faith.  The  world  is  merely  a 
doll  to  be  attired  to-day  in  a modern  ball  dress,  to- 
morrow in  aureoles  and  stars.  The  Virgin  is  a pretty 
thing,  worth  a poem,  but  it  would  be  quite  too  silly  to 
talk  about  belief  or  unbelief ; Christ  in  wood  or  plas- 
ter we  have  heard  too  much  of,  but  Christ  in  painted 
glass  amid  crosiers  and  Latin  terminations,  is  an 
amusing  subject  for  poetry.  And  strangely  enough,  a 
withdrawing  from  all  commerce  with  virtue  and  vice 
is,  it  would  seem,  a licentiousness  more  curiously 
subtle  and  penetrating  than  any  other ; and  the  licen- 
tiousness of  the  verse  is  equal  to  that  of  the  emotion ; 


62  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


every  natural  instinct  of  the  language  is  violated,  and 
the  simple  music  native  in  French  metre  is  replaced 
by  falsetto  notes  sharp  and  intense.  The  charm  is 
that  of  an  odour  of  iris  exhaled  by  some  ideal  tissues, 
or  of  a missal  in  a gold  case,  a precious  relic  of  the 
pomp  and  ritual  of  an  archbishop  of  Persepolis. 

Parsifal  a vaincu  les  lilies,  leur  gentil 
Babil  et  la  luxure  amusante  et  sa  pente 
Vers  la  chair  de  ce  gar^on  vierge  que  cela  tente 
D ’aimer  des  seins  legers  et  ce  gentil  babil. 

II  a vaincu  la  femme  belle  au  coeur  subtil 
Etalant  ces  bras  frais  et  sa  gorge  excitante; 

II  a vaincu  l’enfer,  il  rentre  dans  sa  tente 
Avec  un  lourd  trophee  a son  bras  pueril. 

Avec  la  lance  qui  per<ja  le  flanc  supreme 
II  a gueri  le  roi,  le  voici  roi  lui-meme, 

Et  pretre  du  tr&s-saint  tresor  essentiel; 

En  robe  d’or  il  adore,  gloire  et  symbole, 

Le  vase  pur  oh  resplendit  le  sang  r6el, 

Et,  o ces  voix  d’enfants  chantent  dans  la  coupole. 

I know  of  no  more  perfect  thing  than  this  sonnet. 
The  hiatus  in  the  last  line  was  at  first  a little  trying, 
but  I have  learned  to  love  it;  not  in  Baudelaire  nor 
even  in  Poe  is  there  more  beautiful  poetry  to  be 
found.  Poe,  unread  and  ill-understood  in  America 
and  England,  here,  thou  art  an  integral  part  of  our 
artistic  life. 

The  Island  o’  Fay,  Silence,  Elionore,  were  the 
familiar  spirits  of  an  apartment  beautiful  with  tapes- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  63 


try  and  palms;  Swinburne  and  Rossetti  were  the 
English  poets  I read  there ; and  in  a golden  bondage, 
I,  a unit  in  the  generation  they  have  enslaved,  clanked 
my  fetters  and  trailed  my  golden  chain.  I had  begun 
a set  of  stories  in  many  various  metres,  to  be  called 
“Roses  of  Midnight.”  One  of  the  characteristics  of 
the  volume  was  that  daylight  was  banished  from  its 
pages.  In  the  sensual  lamplight  of  yellow  boudoirs, 
or  the  wild  moonlight  of  centenarian  forests,  my  fan- 
tastic loves  lived  out  their  lives,  died  with  the  dawn 
which  was  supposed  to  be  an  awakening  to  conscious- 
ness of  reality. 


CHAPTER  V 


A LAST  hour  of  vivid  blue  and  gold  glare ; but 
now  the  twilight  sheds  softly  upon  the  darting 
jays,  and  only  the  little  oval  frames  catch  the  fleet- 
ing beams.  I go  to  the  miniatures.  Amid  the  par- 
liamentary faces,  all  strictly  garrotted  with  many- 
folded  handkerchiefs,  there  is  a metal  frame  enchased 
with  rubies  and  a few  emeralds.  And  this  chef 
d’ oeuvre  of  antique  workmanship  surrounds  a sharp, 
shrewdish,  modern  face,  withal  pretty.  Fair  she  is 
and  thin. 

She  is  a woman  of  thirty, — no, — she  is  the  woman 
of  thirty.  Balzac  has  written  some  admirable  pages 
on  this  subject;  my  memory  of  them  is  vague  and 
uncertain,  although  durable,  as  all  memories  of  him 
must  be.  But  that  marvellous  story,  or  rather  study, 
has  been  blunted  in  my  knowledge  of  this  tiny  face 
with  the  fine  masses  of  hair  drawn  up  from  the  neck 
and  arranged  elaborately  on  the  crown.  There  is  no 
fear  of  plagiary ; he  cannot  have  said  all ; he  cannot 
have  said  what  I want  to  say. 

Looking  at  this  face  so  mundane,  so  intellectually 
mundane,  I see  why  a young  man  of  refined  mind — 
a bachelor  who  spends  at  least  a pound  a day  on  his 
pleasures,  and  in  whose  library  are  found  some  few 
volumes  of  modem  poetry — seeks  his  ideal  in  a 
woman  of  thirty. 

64 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  65 


It  is  clear  that,  by  the  very  essence  of  her  being, 
the  young  girl  may  evoke  no  ideal  but  that  of  home ; 
and  home  is  in  his  eyes  the  antithesis  of  freedom,  de- 
sire, aspiration.  He  longs  for  mystery,  deep  and  end- 
less, and  he  is  tempted  with  a foolish  little  illusion — 
white  dresses,  water  colour  drawings,  and  popular 
music.  He  dreams  of  Pleasure,  and  he  is  offered 
Duty ; for  do  not  think  that  that  sylph-like  waist  does 
not  suggest  to  him  a yard  of  apron  string,  cries  of 
children,  and  that  most  odious  word,  “Papa.”  A 
young  man  of  refined  mind  can  look  through  the  glass 
of  the  years. 

He  has  sat  in  the  stalls,  opera-glass  in  hand ; he  has 
met  women  of  thirty  at  balls,  and  has  sat  with  them 
beneath  shadowy  curtains;  he  knows  that  the  world 
is  full  of  beautiful  women,  all  waiting  to  be  loved  and 
amused,  the  circles  of  his  immediate  years  are  filled 
with  feminine  faces,  they  cluster  like  flowers  on  this 
side  and  that,  and  they  fade  into  garden-like  spaces 
of  colour.  How  many  may  love  him  ? The  loveliest 
may  one  day  smile  upon  his  knee ! and  shall  he  re- 
nounce all  for  that  little  creature  who  has  just  fin- 
ished singing,  and  is  handing  round  cups  of  tea? 
Every  bachelor  contemplating  marriage  says,  “I  shall 
have  to  give  up  all  for  one,  one.” 

The  young  girl  is  often  pretty  but  her  prettiness  is 
vague  and  uncertain,  it  inspires  a sort  of  pitying  ad- 
miration, but  it  suggests  nothing ; the  very  essence  of 
the  young  girl’s  being  is  that  she  should  have  nothing 
to  suggest,  therefore  the  beauty  of  the  young  face 
fails  to  touch  the  imagination.  No  past  lies  hidden 


66  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


in  those  translncid  eyes,  no  story  of  hate,  disappoint- 
ment, or  sin.  Nor  is  there  in  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  cases  in  a thousand  any  doubt  that  the 
hand,  that  spends  at  least  a pound  a day  in  restau- 
rants and  cabs,  will  succeed  in  gathering  the  muslin 
flower  if  he  so  wills  it,  and  by  doing  so  he  will  delight 
every  one.  Where,  then,  is  the  struggle  ? where,  then, 
is  the  triumph  ? Therefore,  I say  that  if  a young 
man’s  heart  is  not  set  on  children,  and  tiresome  din- 
ner parties,  the  young  girl  presents  to  him  no  possible 
ideal.  But  the  woman  of  thirty  presents  from  the 
outset  all  that  is  necessary  to  ensnare  the  heart  of  a 
young  man.  I see  her  sitting  in  her  beautiful  draw- 
ing-room, all  composed  by,  and  all  belonging  to  her. 
Her  chair  is  placed  beneath  an  evergreen  plant,  and 
the  long  leaves  lean  out  as  if  to  touch  her  neck.  The 
great  white  and  red  roses  of  the  d’aubusson  carpet  are 
spread  enigmatically  about  her  feline  feet;  a grand 
piano  leans  its  melodious  mouth  to  her ; and  there  she 
sits  when  her  visitors  have  left  her,  playing  Bee- 
thoven’s sonatas  in  the  dreamy  firelight.  The  spring- 
tide  shows  but  a bloom  of  unvarying  freshness;  Au- 
gust has  languished  and  loved  in  the  strength  of  the 
sun.  She  is  stately,  she  is  tall.  What  sins,  what  dis- 
appointments, what  aspirations  lie  in  those  grey  eyes, 
mysteriously  still,  and  mysteriously  revealed.  These 
a young  man  longs  to  know  of,  they  are  his  life.  He 
imagines  himself  sitting  by  her,  when  the  others  have 
gone,  holding  her  hand,  calling  on  her  name;  some- 
times she  moves  away  and  plays  the  moonlight  sonata. 
*-etting  her  hands  droop  upon  the  keys  she  talks  sadly, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  67 


maybe  affectionately ; she  speaks  of  the  tedium  of  life, 
of  its  disenchantments.  He  knows  well  what  she 
means,  he  has  suffered  as  she  has;  but  could  he  tell 
her,  could  she  understand,  that  in  his  love  reality 
would  dissolve  into  a dream,  all  limitations  would 
open  into  boundless  infinity. 

The  husband  he  rarely  sees.  Sometimes  a latchkey 
is  heard  about  half-past  six.  The  man  is  thick, 
strong,  common;  his  jaws  are  heavy;  his  eyes  are  ex- 
pressionless ; there  is  about  him  the  loud  swagger  of 
the  caserne;  and  he  suggests  the  inevitable  question, 
Why  did  she  marry  him  ? — a question  that  every 
young  man  of  refined  mind  asks  a thousand  times  by 
day  and  ten  thousand  times  by  night,  asks  till  he  is 
five-and-thirty,  and  sees  that  his  generation  has 
passed  into  middle  age. 

Why  did  she  marry  him?  Not  the  sea,  nor  the 
sky,  nor  the  great  mysterious  midnight,  when  he 
opens  his  casement  and  gazes  into  starry  space  will 
give  him  answer;  riddle  that  no  (Edipus  will  ever 
come  to  unravel;  this  sphinx  will  never  throw  her- 
self from  the  rock  into  the  clangour  of  the  seagulls 
and  waves ; she  will  never  divulge  her  secret ; and  if 
she  is  the  woman  and  not  a woman  of  thirty,  she  has 
forgotten. 

The  young  man  shakes  hands  with  the  husband; 
he  strives  not  to  look  embarrassed,  and  he  talks  of 
indifferent  things — of  how  well  he  (the  husband)  is 
looking,  of  his  amusements,  his  projects;  and  then  he 
(the  young  man  of  refined  mind)  tastes  of  that  keen 
and  highly-seasoned  delight — happiness  in  crime.  He 


68  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


knows  not  the  details  of  her  home  life,  the  husband 
is  merely  a dark  cloud  that  fills  one  side  of  the  pic- 
ture, sometimes  obliterating  the  sunlight ; a shadowy 
shape  that  in  certain  moments  solidifies  and  assumes 
the  likeness  of  a rock-sculptured,  imminent  monster: 
but  the  shadow  and  the  shape  and  the  threat  are  mag- 
netic, and  in  a sense  of  danger  the  fascination  is 
sealed.  . . . 

See  the  young  man  of  refined  mind  in  a ball  room ! 
He  is  leaning  against  the  woodwork  in  a distant  door- 
way, he  scarcely  knows  what  to  do  with  himself ; and 
he  is  now  striving  to  interest  himself  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  a group  of  men  twice  his  age.  I will  not  say 
he  is  shunned ; but  neither  the  matrons  nor  the  young 
girls  make  any  advances  towards  him.  The  young 
girls  looking  so  sweet — in  the  oneness  of  their  fresh 
hair,  flowers,  dresses,  and  glances — are  being  intro- 
duced, are  getting  up  to  dance,  and  the  hostess  is 
looking  round  for  partners.  She  sees  the  young  man 
in  the  doorway;  but  she  hesitates  and  goes  to  some 
one  else ; and  if  you  asked  her  why,  she  could  not  tell 
you  why  she  avoided  him.  Presently  the  woman  of 
thirty  enters.  She  is  in  white  satin  and  diamonds. 
She  looks  for  him, — a circular  glance, — and  calm 
with  possession  she  passes  to  a seat.  She  dances  the 
eighth,  twelfth,  and  fifteenth  waltz  with  him. 

Will  he  induce  her  to  visit  his  rooms?  Will  they 
be  like  mine — strange  debauches  of  colour  and  Turk- 
ish lamps,  Marshall’s  taste,  an  old  cabinet,  a faded 
pastel  which  embalms  the  memory  of  a pastoral  cen- 
tury, my  taste ; or  will  it  be  a library, — two  leather 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  69 

library  chairs,  a large  escritoire,  etc.  ? Be  this  as  it 
may,  whether  the  apartments  be  the  ruthless  ex- 
travagance of  artistic  impulse,  or  the  subdued  taste 
of  the  student,  she,  the  woman  of  thirty,  shall  be  there 
by  night  and  day : her  statue  is  there,  and  even  when 
she  is  sleeping  safe  in  her  husband’s  arms  with  fe- 
vered brow,  he,  the  young  man  of  refined  mind,  alone 
and  lonely  shall  kneel  and  adore  her. 

And  should  she  not  visit  his  rooms  ? If  the  com- 
plex and  various  accidents  of  existence  should  have 
ruled  out  her  life  virtuously ; if  the  many  inflections 
of  sentiment  have  decided  against  this  last  consumma- 
tion, then  she  will  wax  to  the  complete,  the  unfathom- 
able temptress — the  Lilith  of  old — she  will  never  set 
him  free,  and  in  the  end  will  be  found  about  his  heart 
“one  single  golden  hair.”  She  shall  haunt  his  wife’s 
face  and  words  (should  he  seek  to  rid  himself  of  her 
by  marriage),  a bitter  sweet,  a half- welcome  enchant- 
ment ; she  shall  consume  and  destroy  the  strength  and 
spirit  of  his  life,  leaving  it  desolation,  a barren 
landscape,  burnt  and  faintly  scented  with  the  sea. 
Fame  and  wealth  shall  slip  like  sand  from  him.  She 
may  be  set  aside  for  the  cadence  of  a rhyme,  for  the 
flowing  line  of  a limb,  but  when  the  passion  of  art 
has  raged  itself  out,  she  shall  return  to  blight  the 
peace  of  the  worker. 

A terrible  malady  is  she,  a malady  the  ancients 
knew  of  and  called  nympholepsy — a beautiful  name 
evocative  and  symbolic  of  its  ideal  aspect,  “the  breast 
of  the  nymph  in  the  brake.”  And  the  disease  is  not 
extinct  in  these  modern  days,  nor  will  it  ever  be  so 


70  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


long  as  men  shall  yearn  for  the  unattainable ; and  the 
prosy  bachelors  who  trail  their  ill-fated  lives  from 
their  chambers  to  their  clubs  know  of,  and  they  call 
their  malady — the  woman  of  thirty. 


CHAPTER  VI 


A JAPANESE  dressing  gown,  the  ideality  of 
whose  tissue  delights  me,  some  fresh  honey  and 
milk  set  by  this  couch  hung  with  royal  fringes ; and 
having  partaken  of  this  odorous  refreshment,  I call  to 
Jack  my  great  python  that  is  crawling  about  after  a 
two  months’  fast.  I tie  up  a guineapig  to  the 
tabouret,  pure  Louis  XV.,  the  little  beast  struggles 
and  squeaks,  the  snake,  his  black,  bead-like  eyes  are 
fixed,  how  superb  are  the  oscillations  . . . now  he 
strikes,  and  slowly  and  with  what  exquisite  gourman- 
dise  he  lubricates  and  swallows. 

Marshall  is  at  the  organ  in  the  hall,  he  is  playing  a 
Gregorian  chant,  that  beautiful  hymn,  the  “Vexilla 
Regis,”  by  Saint  Fortunatus,  the  great  poet  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  And,  having  turned  over  the  leaves  of 
“Les  Fetes  Gallantes,”  I sit  down  to  write. 

My  original  intention  was  to  write  some  thirty  or 
forty  stories  varying  from  thirty  to  three  hundred 
lines  in  length.  The  nature  of  these  stories  is  easy 
to  imagine:  there  was  the  youth  who  wandered  by 
night  into  a witches’  sabbath,  and  was  disputed  for  by 
the  witches,  young  and  old.  There  was  the  light  o’ 
love  who  went  into  the  desert  to  tempt  the  holy  man ; 
but  he  died  as  he  yielded,  and  the  arms  stiffening  by 
some  miracle  to  iron-like  rigidity,  she  was  unable  to 

71 


72  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


free  herself,  and  died  of  starvation,  as  her  bondage 
loosened  in  decay.  And  I had  increased  my  diffi- 
culties by  adopting  as  part  of  my  task  the  introduc- 
tion of  all  sorts  of  elaborate,  and  in  many  cases  ex- 
travagantly composed  metres,  and  I had  begun  to  feel 
that  I was  working  in  sand,  I could  make  no  progress, 
the  house  I was  raising  crumbled  and  fell  away  on 
every  side.  These  stories  had  one  merit : they  were 
all,  so  far  as  I can  remember,  perfectly  constructed. 
For  the  art  of  telling  a story  clearly  and  dramatically, 
selon  les  procedes  de  M.  Scribe , I had  thoroughly 
learnt  from  old  M.  Duval,  the  author  of  a hundred 
and  sixty  plays,  written  in  collaboration  with  more 
than  a hundred  of  the  best  writers  of  his  day,  includ- 
ing the  master  himself,  Gautier.  I frequently  met 
M.  Duval  at  breakfast  at  a neighbouring  cafe , and  our 
conversation  turned  on  V exposition  de  la  piece , pre- 
parer la  situation,  nous  aurons  des  larmes,  etc.  One 
day,  as  I sat  waiting  for  him,  I took  up  the  Voltaire . 
It  contained  an  article  by  M.  Zola.  N aturalisme,  la 
verite,  la  science , were  repeated  some  half-a-dozen 
times.  Hardly  able  to  believe  my  eyes,  I read  that 
you  should  write,  with  as  little  imagination  as  pos- 
sible, that  plot  in  a novel  or  in  a play  was  illiterate 
and  puerile,  and  that  the  art  of  M.  Scribe  was  an  art 
of  strings  and  wires,  etc.  I rose  up  from  breakfast, 
ordered  my  coffee,  and  stirred  the  sugar,  a little 
dizzy,  like  one  who  has  received  a violent  blow  on  the 
head. 

Eeho-augury!  Words  heard  in  an  unexpected 
quarter,  but  applying  marvellously  well  to  the  beset- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  ?3 


ting  difficulty  of  the  moment.  The  reader  who  has 
followed  me  so  far  will  remember  the  instant  effect 
the  word  “Shelley”  had  upon  me  in  childhood,  and 
how  it  called  into  existence  a train  of  feeling  that 
illuminated  the  vicissitudes  and  passions  of  many 
years,  until  it  was  finally  assimilated  and  became  part 
of  my  being;  the  reader  will  also  remember  how  the 
mere  mention,  at  a certain  moment,  of  the  word 
“France”  awoke  a vital  impulse,  even  a sense  of  final 
ordination,  and  how  the  irrevocable  message  was 
obeyed,  and  how  it  led  to  the  creation  of  a mental 
existence. 

And  now  for  a third  time  I experienced  the  pain 
and  joy  of  a sudden  and  inward  light.  Naturalism, 
truth,  the  new  art,  above  all  the  phrase,  “the  new  art,” 
impressed  me  as  with  a sudden  sense  of  light.  I was 
dazzled,  and  I vaguely  understood  that  my  “Roses  of 
Midnight”  were  sterile  eccentricities,  dead  flowers 
that  could  not  be  galvanised  into  any  semblance  of 
life,  passionless  in  all  their  passion. 

I had  read  a few  chapters  of  the  “Assommoir,” 
as  it  appeared  in  La  Republique  des  Lettres ; I had 
cried,  “ridiculous,  abominable,”  only  because  it  is 
characteristic  of  me  to  instantly  form  an  opinion  and 
assume  at  once  a violent  attitude.  But  now  I bought 
up  the  back  numbers  of  the  Voltaire , and  I looked 
forward  to  the  weekly  exposition  of  the  new  faith 
with  febrile  eagerness.  The  great  zeal  with  which 
the  new  master  continued  his  propaganda,  and  the 
marvellous  way  in  which  subjects  the  most  diverse, 
passing  events,  political,  social,  religious,  were 


74  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


caught  up  and  turned  into  arguments  for,  or  proof 
of  the  truth  of  naturalism  astonished  me  wholly.  The 
idea  of  a new  art  based  upon  science,  in  opposition 
to  the  art  of  the  old  world  that  was  based  on  imagina- 
tion, an  art  that  should  explain  all  things  and  em- 
brace modern  life  in  its  entirety,  in  its  endless  rami- 
fications, be,  as  it  were,  a new  creed  in  a new  civili- 
sation, filled  me  with  wonder,  and  I stood  dumb  be- 
fore the  vastness  of  the  conception,  and  the  towering 
height  of  the  ambition.  In  my  fevered  fancy  I saw 
a new  race  of  writers  that  would  arise,  and  with  the 
aid  of  the  novel  would  continue  to  a more  glorious 
and  legitimate  conclusion  the  work  that  the  prophets 
had  begun ; and  at  each  development  of  the  theory  of 
the  new  art  and  its  universal  applicability,  my  won- 
der increased  and  my  admiration  choked  me.  If  any 
one  should  be  tempted  to  turn  to  the  books  themselves 
to  seek  an  explanation  of  this  wild  ecstasy,  they 
would  find  nothing — as  well  drink  the  dregs  of  yes- 
terday’s champagne.  One  is  lying  before  me  now, 
and  as  I glance  through  the  pages  listlessly  I say, 
“Only  the  simple  crude  statements  of  a man  of 
powerful  mind,  but  singularly  narrow  vision.” 

Still,  although  eager  and  anxious  for  the  fray,  I 
did  not  see  how  I was  to  participate  in  it.  I was  not 
a novelist,  not  yet  a dramatic  author,  and  the  pos- 
sibility of  a naturalistic  poet  seemed  to  me  not  a little 
doubtful.  I had  clearly  understood  that  the  lyrical 
quality  was  to  be  for  ever  banished;  there  were  to 
be  no  harps  and  lutes  in  our  heaven,  only  drums ; and 
the  preservation  of  all  the  essentials  of  poetry,  by  the 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  75 


simple  enumeration  of  the  utensils  to  be  found  in  a 
back  kitchen,  did,  I could  not  help  thinking  (here  it 
becomes  necessary  to  whisper),  sound  not  unlike  rig- 
marole. I waited  for  the  master  to  speak.  He  had 
declared  that  the  Republic  would  fall  if  it  did  not  be- 
come instantly  naturalistic;  he  would  not,  he  could 
not  pass  over  in  silence  so  important  a branch  of  lit- 
erature as  poetry,  no  matter  how  contemptible  he 
might  think  it.  If  he  could  find  nothing  to  praise, 
he  must  at  least  condemn.  At  last  the  expected  arti- 
cle came.  It  was  all  that  could  be  desired  by  one  in 
my  fever  of  mind.  Hugo’s  claims  had  been  previ- 
ously disproven,  but  now  Banville  and  Gautier  were 
declared  to  be  warmed  up  dishes  of  the  ancient  world ; 
Baudelaire  was  a naturalist,  but  he  had  been  spoilt 
by  the  romantic  influence  of  his  generation.  Cepend- 
ant  there  were  indications  of  the  naturalistic  move- 
ment even  in  poetry.  I trembled  with  excitement,  I 
could  not  read  fast  enough.  Coppee  had  striven  to 
simplify  language;  he  had  versified  the  street  cries, 
Achetez  la  France , le  Soir,  le  Rappel ; he  had  sought 
to  give  utterance  to  humble  sentiments  as  in  “Be 
Petit  Epicier  de  Montrouge,”  the  little  grocer  qui 
cassait  le  sucre  avec  melancolie;  Richepin  had  boldly 
and  frankly  adopted  the  language  of  the  people  in  all 
, its  superb  crudity.  All  this  was,  however,  prepara- 
i tory  and  tentative.  We  are  waiting  for  our  poet,  he 
who  will  sing  to  us  fearlessly  of  the  rude  industry  of 
dustmen  and  the  comestible  glories  of  the  market- 
places. The  subjects  are  to  hand,  the  formula  alone 
is  wanting. 


76  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


The  prospect  was  a dazzling  one;  I tried  to  calm 
myself.  Had  I the  stuff  in  me  to  win  and  to  wear 
these  bays,  this  stupendous  laurel  crown  ? — bays, 
laurel  crown,  a distinct  souvenir  of  Parnassus,  but 
there  is  no  modem  equivalent,  I must  strive  to  invent 
a new  one,  in  the  meantime  let  me  think.  True  it  is 
that  Swinburne  was  before  me  with  the  “Roman- 
tiques.”  The  hymn  to  Proserpine  and  Dolores  are 
wonderful  lyrical  versions  of  Mdlle.  de  Maupin.  In 
form  the  Leper  is  old  English,  the  colouring  is  Baude- 
laire, but  the  rude  industry  of  the  dustmen  and  the 
comestible  glories  of  the  market-place  shall  be  mine. 
A has  “Les  Roses  de  Minuit” ! 

I felt  the  “naturalisation”  of  the  “Roses  of  Mid- 
night” would  prove  a difficult  task.  I soon  found  it 
an  impossible  one,  and  I laid  the  poems  aside  and 
commenced  a volume  redolent  of  the  delights  of 
Bougival  and  Ville  d’Avray.  This  book  was  to  be 
entitled  “Poems  of  ‘Flesh  and  Blood.’  ” 

“Rile  mil  son  plus  beau  chapeau,  son  chapeau 
bleu  ’ . . . and  then  ? Why,  then  picking  up  her  skirt 
she  threads  her  way  through  the  crowded  streets, 
reads  the  advertisements  on  the  walls,  hails  the  omni- 
bus, inquires  at  the  concierge's  loge,  murmurs  as  she 
goes  upstairs,  “Que  c est  haut  le  cinqieme”  and  then  ? 
Why,  the  door  opens,  and  she  cries,  “Je  t’aime” 

But  it  was  the  idea,  of  the  new  aestheticism — the 
new  art  corresponding  to  modern,  as  ancient  art  cor- 
responded to  ancient  life — that  captivated  me,  that 
led  me  away,  and  not  a substantial  knowledge  of  the 
work  done  by  the  naturalists.  I had  read  the  “As- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  77 


sommoir,”  and  had  been  much  impressed  by  its  pyra- 
mid  size,  strength,  height,  and  decorative  grandeur, 
and  also  by  the  immense  harmonic  development  of  the 
idea ; and  the  fugal  treatment  of  the  different  scenes 
had  seemed  to  me  astonishingly  new — the  washhouse, 
for  example:  the  fight  motive  is  indicated,  then  fol- 
lows the  development  of  side  issues,  then  comes  the 
fight  motive  explained ; it  is  broken  off  short,  it  flut- 
ters through  a web  of  progressive  detail,  the  fight  mo- 
tive is  again  taken  up,  and  now  it  is  worked  out  in 
all  its  fulness ; it  is  worked  up  to  crescendo , another 
side  issue  is  introduced,  and  again  the  theme  is  given 
forth.  And  I marvelled  greatly  at  the  lordly,  river- 
like roll  of  the  narrative,  sometimes  widening  out  into 
lakes  and  shallowing  meres,  but  never  stagnating  in 
fen  or  marshlands.  The  language,  too,  which  I did 
not  then  recognise  as  the  weak  point,  being  little  more 
than  a boiling  down  of  Chateaubriand  and  Flaubert, 
spiced  with  Goncourt,  delighted  me  with  its  novelty, 
its  richness,  its  force.  Nor  did  I then  even  roughly 
suspect  that  the  very  qualities  which  set  my  admira- 
tion in  a blaze  wilder  than  wildfire,  being  precisely 
those  that  had  won  the  victory  for  the  romantic  school 
forty  years  before,  were  very  antagonistic  to  those 
claimed  for  the  new  art ; I was  deceived,  as  was  all 
my  generation,  by  a certain  externality,  an  outer 
skin,  a nearness,  un  approvement ; in  a word,  by  a 
substitution  of  Paris  for  the  distant  and  exotic  back- 
grounds so  beloved  of  the  romantic  school.  I did  not 
know  then,  as  I do  now,  that  art  is  eternal,  that  it  is 
only  the  artist  that  changes,  and  that  the  two  great 


78  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


divisions — the  only  possible  divisions — are : those 
who  have  talent,  and  those  who  have  no  talent.  But 
I do  not  regret  my  errors,  my  follies ; it  is  not  well  to 
know  at  once  of  the  limitations  of  life  and  things.  I 
should  be  less  than  nothing  had  it  not  been  for  my 
enthusiasms ; they  were  the  saving  clause  in  my  life. 

But  although  I am  apt  to  love  too  dearly  the  art 
of  my  day,  and  at  the  cost  of  that  of  other  days,  I 
did  not  fall  into  the  fatal  mistake  of  placing  the 
realistic  writers  of  1877  side  by  side  with  and  on 
the  same  plane  of  intellectual  vision  as  the  great 
Balzac;  I felt  that  that  vast  immemorial  mind  rose 
above  them  all,  like  a mountain  above  the  highest 
tower. 

And,  strange  to  say,  it  was  Gautier  that  introduced 
me  to  Balzac ; for  mention  is  made  in  the  wonderful 
preface  to  “Les  Fleurs  du  Mai”  of  Seraphita : Sera- 
phita,  Seraphitus;  which  is  it? — woman  or  man? 
Should  Wilfred  or  Mona  be  the  possessor?  A new 
Mdlle.  de  Maupin,  with  royal  lily  and  aureole,  cloud- 
capped  mountains,  great  gulfs  of  sea-water  flowing  up 
and  reflecting  as  in  a mirror  the  steep  cliff’s  side ; the 
straight  white  feet  are  set  thereon,  the  obscuring  weft 
of  flesh  is  torn,  and  the  pure,  strange  soul  continues 
its  mystical  exhortations.  Then  the  radiant  vision, 
a white  glory,  the  last  outburst  and  manifestation,  the 
trumpets  of  the  apocalypse,  the  colour  of  heaven ; the 
closing  of  the  stupendous  allegory  when  Seraphita 
lies  dead  in  the  rays  of  the  first  sun  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

I,  therefore,  had  begun,  as  it  were,  to  read  Balzac 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  79 


backwards ; instead  of  beginning  with  the  plain,  sim- 
ple, earthly  tragedy  of  the  Pere  Goriot,  I first  knelt 
in  a beautiful  but  distant  coigne  of  the  great  world  of 
his  genius — Seraphita.  Certain  nuances  of  soul  are 
characteristic  of  certain  latitudes,  and  what  subtle  in- 
stinct led  him  to  Norway  in  quest  of  this  fervent 
soul  ? The  instincts  of  genius  are  unfathomable ; but 
he  who  has  known  the  white  northern  women  with 
their  pure  spiritual  eyes,  will  aver  that  instinct  led 
him  aright.  I have  known  one,  one  whom  I used  to 
call  Seraphita;  Coppee  knew  her  too,  and  that  ex- 
quisite volume,  “L’Exile,”  so  Seraphita-like  in  the 
keen  blond  passion  of  its  verse,  was  written  to  her, 
and  each  poem  was  sent  to  her  as  it  was  written. 
Where  is  she  now,  that  flower  of  northern  snow,  once 
seen  for  a season  in  Paris  ? Has  she  returned  to  her 
native  northern  solitudes,  great  gulfs  of  sea  water, 
mountain  rock,  and  pine? 

Balzac’s  genius  is  in  his  titles  as  heaven  is  in  its 
stars:  “Melmoth  Reconcilie,”  “Jesus-Christ  en 

Flandres,”  “Le  Revers  d’un  Grand  Homme,”  “La 
Cousine  Bette.”  I read  somewhere  not  very  long 
ago,  that  Balzac  was  the  greatest  thinker  that  had  ap- 
peared in  France  since  Pascal.  Of  Pascal’s  claim  to 
be  a great  thinker  I confess  I cannot  judge.  No  man 
is  greater  than  the  age  he  lives  in,  and,  therefore,  to 
talk  to  us,  the  legitimate  children  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  of  logical  proofs  of  the  existence  of  God 
strikes  us  in  just  the  same  light  as  the  logical  proof 
of  the  existence  of  Jupiter  Ammon.  “Les  Pensees” 
could  appear  to  me  only  as  infinitely  childish;  the 


80  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


form  is  no  doubt  superb,  but  tiresome  and  sterile  to 
one  of  such  modern  and  exotic  taste  as  myself.  Still, 
I accept  thankfully,  in  its  sense  of  two  hundred 
years,  the  compliment  paid  to  Balzac;  but  I would 
add  that  personally  he  seems  to  me  to  have  shown 
greater  wings  of  mind  than  any  artist  that  ever  lived. 
I am  aware  that  this  last  statement  will  make  many 
cry  “fool”  and  hiss  “Shakespeare!”  But  I am  not 
putting  forward  these  criticisms  axiomatically,  but 
only  as  the  expressions  of  an  individual  taste,  and  in- 
teresting so  far  as  they  reveal  to  the  reader  the  differ- 
ent developments  and  the  progress  of  my  mind.  It 
might  prove  a little  tiresome,  but  it  would  no  doubt 
“look  well,”  in  the  sense  that  going  to  church  “looks 
well,”  if  I were  to  write  in  here  ten  pages  of  praise  of 
our  national  bard.  I must,  however,  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  “look  well;”  a confession  is  interesting  in 
proportion  to  the  amount  of  truth  it  contains,  and  I 
will,  therefore,  state  frankly  I never  derived  any 
profit  whatsoever,  and  very  little  pleasure  from  the 
reading  of  the  great  plays.  The  beauty  of  the  verse ! 
Yes;  he  who  loved  Shelley  so  well  as  I could  not  fail 
to  hear  the  melody  of — 

iC  Music  to  hear,  why  hearest  thou  music  sadly 
Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy.” 

Is  not  such  music  as  this  enough  ? Of  course  but  I 
am  a sensualist  in  literature.  I may  see  perfectly 
well  that  this  or  that  book  is  a work  of  genius,  but  if 
it  doesn’t  “fetch  me,”  it  doesn’t  concern  me,  and  I 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  81 

forget  its  very  existence.  What  leaves  me  cold  to- 
day will  madden  me  to-morrow.  With  me  literature 
is  a question  of  sense,  intellectual  sense  if  you  will, 
but  sense  all  the  same,  and  ruled  by  the  same  caprices 
— those  of  the  flesh?  Now  we  enter  on  very  subtle 
distinctions.  No  doubt  that  there  is  the  brain- judg- 
ment and  the  sense- judgment  of  a work  of  art.  And 
it  will  be  noticed  that  these  two  forces  of  discrimina- 
tion exist  sometimes  almost  independently  of  each 
other,  in  rare  and  radiant  instances  confounded  and 
blended  in  one  immense  and  unique  love.  Who  has 
not  been,  unless  perhaps  some  dusty  old  pedant, 
thrilled  and  driven  to  pleasure  by  the  action  of  a book 
that  penetrates  to  and  speaks  to  you  of  your  most 
present  and  most  intimate  emotions.  This  is  of  course 
pure  sensualism;  but  to  take  a less  marked  stage. 
Why  should  Marlowe  enchant  me  ? why  should  he  de- 
light and  awake  enthusiasm  in  me,  while  Shakespeare 
leaves  me  cold  ? The  mind  that  can  understand  one 
can  understand  the  other,  but  there  are  affinities  in 
literature  corresponding  to,  and  very  analogous  to, 
sexual  affinities — the  same  unreasoned  attractions, 
the  same  pleasures,  the  same  lassitudes.  Those  we 
have  loved  most  we  are  most  indifferent  to.  Shelley, 
Gautier,  Zola,  Flaubert,  Goncourt ! how  I have  loved 
you  all;  and  now  I could  not,  would  not,  read  you 
again.  How  womanly,  how  capricious;  but  even  a 
capricious  woman  is  constant,  if  not  faithful  to  her 
amant  de  coeur . And  so  with  me;  of  those  I have 
loved  deeply  there  is  but  one  that  still  may  thrill  me 
with  the  old  passion,  with  the  first  ecstacy — it  is  Bal- 


82  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


zac.  Upon  that  rock  I built  my  church,  and  his  great 
and  valid  talent  saved  me  often  from  destruction, 
saved  me  from  the  shoaling  waters  of  new  aestheti- 
cisms, the  putrid  mud  of  naturalism,  and  the  faint 
and  sickly  surf  of  the  symbolists.  Thinking  of  him, 
I could  not  forget  that  it  is  the  spirit  and  not  the  flesh 
that  is  eternal;  that,  as  it  was  thought  that  in  the 
first  instance  gave  man  speech,  so  to  the  end  it  shall 
still  be  thought  that  shall  make  speech  beautiful  and 
rememberable.  The  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  Bal- 
zac’s thoughts  seem  to  me  to  rise  to  the  loftiest 
heights,  and  his  range  is  limitless ; there  is  no  passion 
he  has  not  touched,  and  what  is  more  marvellous,  he 
has  given  to  each  in  art  a place  equivalent  to  the 
place  it  occupies  in  nature ; his  intense  and  penetrat- 
ing sympathy  for  human  life  and  all  that  concerns  it 
enabled  him  to  surround  the  humblest  subjects  with 
awe  and  crown  them  with  the  light  of  tragedy.  There 
are  some,  particularly  those  who  are  capable  of  under- 
standing neither  and  can  read  but  one,  who  will  ob- 
ject to  any  comparison  being  drawn  between  the 
Dramatist  and  the  Novelist;  but  I confess  that  I — if 
the  inherent  superiority  of  verse  over  prose,  which  I 
admit  unhesitatingly,  be  waived — that  I fail,  utterly 
fail  to  see  in  what  Shakespeare  is  greater  than  Balzac. 
The  range  of  the  poet’s  thought  is  of  necessity  not  so 
wide,  and  his  concessions  must  needs  be  greater  than 
the  novelist’s.  On  these  points  we  will  cry  quits,  and 
come  at  once  to  the  vital  question — the  creation.  Is 
Lucien  inferior  to  Hamlet  ? Is  Eugenie  Grandet  in- 
ferior to  Desdemona  ? Is  her  father  inferior  to  Shy- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  83 


lock?  Is  Macbeth  inferior  to  Vautrin?  Can  it  be 
said  that  the  apothecary  in  the  “Cousine  Bette,”  or 
the  Baron  Hulot,  or  the  Cousine  Bette  herself  is  in- 
ferior to  anything  the  brain  of  man  has  ever  con- 
ceived ? And  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Shake- 
speare has  had  three  hundred  years  and  the  advan- 
tage of  stage  representation  to  impress  his  characters 
on  the  sluggish  mind  of  the  world ; and  as  mental  im- 
pressions are  governed  by  the  same  laws  of  gravita- 
tion as  atoms,  our  realisation  of  Falstaff  must  of 
necessity  be  more  vivid  than  any  character  in  contem- 
porary literature,  although  it  were  equally  great. 
And  so  far  as  epigram  and  aphorism  are  concerned, 
and  here  I speak  with  absolute  sincerity  and  convic- 
tion, the  work  of  the  novelist  seems  to  me  richer  than 
that  of  the  dramatist.  Who  shall  forget  those  terrible 
words  of  the  poor  life-weary  orphan  in  the  boarding- 
house? Speaking  of  Vautrin  she  says,  “His  look 
frightens  me  as  if  he  put  his  hand  on  my  dress and 
another  epigram  from  the  same  book,  “Woman’s 
virtue  is  man’s  greatest  invention.”  Find  me  any- 
thing in  La  Rochefoucauld  that  goes  more  incisively 
to  the  truth  of  things.  One  more;  here  I can  give 
the  exact  words : “La  gloire  est  le  soleil  des  morts” 
It  would  be  easy  to  compile  a book  of  sayings  from 
Balzac  that  would  make  all  “Maximes”  and  “Pen- 
sees,”  even  those  of  La  Rochefoucauld  or  Joubert, 
seem  trivial  and  shallow. 

Balzac  was  the  great  moral  influence  of  my  life, 
and  my  reading  culminated  in  the  “Comedie  Hu- 
maine.”  I no  doubt  fluttered  through  some  scores  of 


84  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


other  books,  of  prose  and  verse,  sipping  a little  honey, 
but  he  alone  left  any  important  or  lasting  impression 
upon  my  mind.  The  rest  was  like  walnuts  and  wine, 
an  agreeable  aftertaste. 

But  notwithstanding  all  this  reading  I can  lay  no 
claim  to  scholarship  of  any  kind;  for  save  life  I 
could  never  learn  anything  correctly.  I am  a student 
only  of  ball  rooms,  bar  rooms,  streets,  and  alcoves.  I 
have  read  very  little;  but  all  I read  I can  turn  to 
account,  and  all  I read  I remember.  To  read  freely, 
extensively,  has  always  been  my  ambition,  and  my 
utter  inability  to  study  has  always  been  to  me  a sub- 
ject of  grave  inquietude, — study  as  contrasted  with  a 
general  and  haphazard  gathering  of  ideas  taken  in 
flight.  But  in  me  the  impulse  is  so  original  to  fre- 
quent the  haunts  of  men  that  it  is  irresistible,  con- 
versation is  the  breath  of  my  nostrils,  I watch  the 
movement  of  life,  and  my  ideas  spring  from  it  un- 
called for,  as  buds  from  branches.  Contact  with  the 
world  is  in  me  the  generating  force ; without  it  what 
invention  I have  is  thin  and  sterile,  and  it  grows 
thinner  rapidly,  until  it  dies  away  utterly,  as  it  did  in 
the  composition  of  my  unfortunate  “Roses  of  Mid- 
night.” 

Men  and  women,  oh  the  strength  of  the  living 
faces ! conversation,  oh  the  magic  of  it ! It  is  a fab- 
ulous river  of  gold  where  the  precious  metal  is  washed 
up  without  stint  for  all  to  take,  to  take  as  much  as  he 
can  carry.  Two  old  ladies  discussing  the  peerage  ? 
Much  may  be  learned,  it  is  gold ; poets  and  wits,  then 
it  is  fountains  whose  spray  solidifies  into  jewels,  and 


I 


I 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  85 


every  herb  and  plant  is  begemmed  with  the  sparkle 
of  the  diamond  and  the  glow  of  the  ruby. 

I did  not  go  to  either  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  but 
I went  to  the  “Nouvelle  Athenes.”  What  is  the 
“Nouvelle  Athenes”  ? He  who  would  know  anything 
of  my  life  must  know  something  of  the  academy  of 
the  fine  arts.  Not  the  official  stupidity  you  read  of 
in  the  daily  papers,  but  the  real  French  academy,  the 
cafe.  The  “Nouvelle  Athenes”  is  a cafe  on  the  Place 
Pigale.  Ah!  the  morning  idlenesses  and  the  long 
evenings  when  life  was  but  a summer  illusion,  the 
grey  moonlights  on  the  Place  where  we  used  to  stand 
on  the  pavements,  the  shutters  clanging  up  behind  us, 
loath  to  separate,  thinking  of  what  we  had  left  said, 
and  how  much  better  we  might  have  enforced  our 
arguments.  Dead  and  scattered  are  all  those  who 
used  to  assemble  there,  and  those  years  and  our  home, 
for  it  was  our  home,  live  only  in  a few  pictures  and 
a few  pages  of  prose.  The  same  old  story,  the  van- 
quished only  are  victorious;  and  though  unacknowl- 
edged, though  unknown,  the  influence  of  the  “Nou- 
velle Athenes”  is  inveterate  in  the  artistic  thought  pf 
the  nineteenth  century. 

How  magnetic,  intense,  and  vivid  are  these  mem- 
ories of  youth.  With  what  strange,  almost  unnatural 
clearness  do  I see  and  hear, — see  the  white  face  of 
that  cafe,  the  white  nose  of  that  block  of  houses, 
stretching  up  to  the  Place,  between  two  streets.  I can 
see  down  the  incline  of  those  two  streets,  and  I know 
what  shops  are  there ; I can  hear  the  glass-door  of  the 
cafe  grate  on  the  sand  as  I open  it.  I can  recall  the 


86  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


smell  of  every  hour.  In  the  morning  that  of  eggs 
frizzling  in  butter,  the  pungent  cigarette,  coffee  and 
bad  cognac ; at  five  o’clock  the  fragrant  odour  of  ab- 
sinthe ; and  soon  after  the  steaming  soup  ascends  from 
the  kitchen ; and  as  the  evening  advances,  the 
mingled  smells  of  cigarettes,  coffee,  and  weak  beer. 
A partition,  rising  a few  feet  or  more  over  the  hats, 
separates  the  glass  front  from  the  main  body  of  the 
cafe . The  usual  marble  tables  are  there,  and  it  is 
there  we  sat  and  sestheticised  till  two  o’clock  in  the 
morning.  But  who  is  that  man  ? he  whose  prominent 
eyes  flash  with  excitement.  That  is  Yilliers  de  l’lsle- 
Adam.  The  last  or  the  supposed  last  of  the  great 
family.  He  is  telling  that  girl  a story — that  fair  girl 
with  heavy  eyelids,  stupid  and  sensual.  She  is,  how- 
ever, genuinely  astonished  and  interested,  and  he  is 
striving  to  play  upon  her  ignorance.  Listen  to  him. 
“Spain — the  night  is  fragrant  with  the  sea  and  the 
perfume  of  the  orange  trees,  you  know — a midnight 
of  stars  and  dreams.  Now  and  then  the  silence  is 
broken  by  the  sentries  challenging — that  is  all.  But 
not  in  Spanish  but  in  French  are  the  challenges 
given;  the  town  is  in  the  hands  of  the  French;  it  is 
under  martial  law.  But  now  an  officer  passes  down 
a certain  garden,  a Spaniard  disguised  as  a French 
officer ; from  the  balcony  the  family — one  of  the  most 
noble  and  oldest  families  Spain  can  boast  of,  a thou- 
sand years,  long  before  the  conquest  of  the  Moors — 
watches  him.  Well  then” — Villiers  sweeps  with  a 
white  feminine  hand  the  long  hair  that  is  falling  over 
his  face — he  has  half  forgotten,  he  is  a little  mixed 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  87 

in  the  opening  of  the  story,  and  he  is  striving  in  Eng- 
lish to  “scamp,”  in  French  to  escamoter.  “The 
family  are  watching,  death  if  he  is  caught,  if  he  fails 
to  kill  the  French  sentry.  The  cry  of  a bird,  some 
vague  sound  attracts  the  sentry,  he  turns ; all  is  lost. 
The  Spaniard  is  seized.  Martial  law,  Spanish  con- 
spiracy must  be  put  down.  The  French  general  is  a 
man  of  iron.”  (Villiers  laughs,  a short  hesitating 
laugh  that  is  characteristic  of  him,  and  continues  in 
his  abrupt,  uncertain  way),  “man  of  iron;  not  only 
he  declares  that  the  spy  must  be  beheaded,  but  also 
the  entire  family — a man  of  iron  that,  ha,  ha;  and 
then,  no  you  cannot,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  under- 
stand the  enormity  of  the  calamity — a thousand  years 
before  the  conquest  by  the  Moors,  a Spaniard  alone 
could — there  is  no  one  here,  ha,  ha,  I was  forgetting 
— the  utter  extinction  of  a great  family  of  the  name, 
the  oldest  and  noblest  of  all  the  families  in  Spain,  it 
is  not  easy  to  understand  that,  no,  not  easy  here  in 
the  ‘Nouvelle  Athenes’ — ha,  ha,  one  must  belong  to 
a great  family  to  understand,  ha,  ha. 

“The  father  beseeches;  he  begs  that  one  member 
may  be  spared  to  continue  the  name — the  youngest 
son — that  is  all ; if  he  could  be  saved,  the  rest  what 
matter ; death  is  nothing  to  a Spaniard ; the  family, 
the  name,  a thousand  years  of  name  is  everything. 
The  general  is,  you  know,  a ‘man  of  iron.’  ‘Yes,  one 
member  of  your  family  shall  be  respited,  but  on  one 
condition.’  To  the  agonised  family  conditions  are  as 
nothing.  But  they  don’t  know  the  man  of  iron  is  de- 
termined to  make  a terrible  example,  and  they  cry, 


88  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


‘Any  conditions.5  ‘He  who  is  respited  must  serve  as 
executioner  to  the  others.5  Great  is  the  doom;  you 
understand;  but  after  all  the  name  must  be  saved. 
Then  in  the  family  council  the  father  goes  to  his 
youngest  son  and  says,  ‘I  have  been  a good  father  to 
you,  my  son ; I have  always  been  a kind  father,  have 
I not?  answer  me;  I have  never  refused  you  any- 
thing. Now  you  will  not  fail  us,  you  will  prove 
yourself  worthy  of  the  great  name  you  bear.  Re- 
member your  great  ancestor  who  defeated  the  Moors, 
remember.5  55  (Yilliers  strives  to  get  in  a little  local 
colour,  but  his  knowledge  of  Spanish  names  and  his- 
tory is  limited,  and  he  in  a certain  sense  fails.) 
“Then  the  mother  comes  to  her  son  and  says,  ‘My 
son,  I have  been  a good  mother,  I have  always  loved 
you;  say  you  will  not  desert  us  in  this  hour  of  our 
great  need.5  Then  the  little  sister  comes,  and  the 
whole  family  kneels  down  and  appeals  to  the  horror- 
stricken  boy.  . . . 

“ ‘He  will  not  prove  himself  unworthy  of  our 
name,5  cries  the  father.  ‘Now,  my  son,  courage,  take 
the  axe  firmly,  do  what  I ask  you,  courage,  strike 
straight.5  The  father5s  head  falls  into  the  sawdust, 
the  blood  all  over  the  white  beard;  then  comes  the 
elder  brother,  and  then  another  brother ; and  then,  oh, 
the  little  sister  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear, 
and  the  mother  had  to  whisper,  ‘Remember  your 
promise  to  your  father,  to  your  dead  father.5  The 
mother  laid  her  head  on  the  block,  but  he  could  not 
strike.  ‘Be  not  the  first  coward  of  our  name,  strike ; 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  89 


remember  your  promise  to  us  all/  and  ber  bead  was 
struck  off.” 

“And  the  son,”  the  girl  asks,  “what  became  of 
him  ?” 

“He  never  was  seen,  save  at  night,  walking,  a 
solitary  man,  beneath  the  walls  of  his  castle  in 
Granada,” 

“And  whom  did  he  marry  ?” 

“He  never  married.” 

Then  after  a long  silence  some  one  said, — 

“Whose  story  is  that?” 

“Balzac’s.” 

At  that  moment  the  glass  door  of  the  cafe  grated 
upon  the  sanded  floor,  and  Manet  entered.  Although 
by  birth  and  by  art  essentially  Parisian,  there  was 
something  in  his  appearance  and  manner  of  speaking 
that  often  suggested  an  Englishman.  Perhaps  it  was 
his  dress — his  clean-cut  clothes  and  figure.  That 
figure!  those  square  shoulders  that  swaggered  as  he 
went  across  a room  and  the  thin  waist;  and  that 
face,  the  beard  and  nose,  satyr-like  shall  I say?  No, 
for  I would  evoke  an  idea  of  beauty  of  line  united  to 
that  of  intellectual  expression — frank  words,  frank 
passion  in  his  convictions,  loyal  and  simple  phrases, 
clear  as  well-water,  sometimes  a little  hard,  some- 
times, as  they  flowed  away,  bitter,  but  at  the  fountain 
head  sweet  and  full  of  light.  He  sits  next  to  Degas, 
that  round-shouldered  man  in  suit  of  pepper  and  salt. 
There  is  nothing  very  trenchantly  French  about  him 
either,  except  the  large  necktie;  his  eyes  are  small 
and  his  words  are  sharp,  ironical,  cynical.  These  two 


90  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


men  are  the  leaders  of  the  impressionist  school.  Their 
friendship  has  been  jarred  by  inevitable  rivalry. 
“Degas  was  painting  ‘Semiramis’  when  I was  paint- 
ing ‘Modern  Paris/  ” says  Manet.  “Manet  is  in  de- 
spair because  he  cannot  paint  atrocious  pictures  like 
Durant,  and  be  feted  and  decorated ; he  is  an  artist, 
not  by  inclination,  but  by  force.  He  is  as  a galley 
slave  chained  to  the  oar,”  says  Degas.  Different  too 
are  their  methods  of  work.  Manet  paints  his  whole 
picture  from  nature,  trusting  his  instinct  to  lead  him 
aright  through  the  devious  labyrinth  of  selection. 
Nor  does  his  instinct  ever  fail  him,  there  is  a vision 
in  his  eyes  which  he  calls  nature,  and  which  he  paints 
unconsciously  as  he  digests  his  food,  thinking  and 
declaring  vehemently  that  the  artist  should  not  seek  a 
synthesis,  but  should  paint  merely  what  he  sees.  This 
extraordinary  oneness  of  nature  and  artistic  vision 
does  not  exist  in  Degas,  and  even  his  portraits  are 
composed  from  drawings  and  notes.  About  mid- 
night Catulle  Mendes  will  drop  in,  when  he  has  cor- 
rected his  proofs.  He  will  come  with  his  fine  para- 
doxes and  his  strained  eloquence.  He  will  lean  to- 
wards you,  he  will  take  you  by  the  arm,  and  his  pres- 
ence is  a nervous  pleasure.  And  when  the  cafe  is 
closed,  when  the  last  bock  has  been  drunk,  we  shall 
walk  about  the  great  moonlight  of  the  Place  Pigale, 
and  through  the  dark  shadows  of  the  streets,  talking 
of  the  last  book  published,  he  hanging  on  to  my  arm, 
speaking  in  that  high  febrile  voice  of  his,  every 
phrase  luminous,  aerial,  even  as  the  soaring  moon 
and  the  fitful  clouds.  Duranty,  an  unknown  Stendal, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  91 

will  come  in  for  an  hour  or  so ; he  will  talk  little  and 
go  away  quietly;  he  knows,  and  his  whole  manner 
shows  that  he  knows  that  he  is  a defeated  man ; and 
if  you  ask  him  why  he  does  not  write  another  novel, 
he  will  say,  “What’s  the  good,  it  would  not  be  read ; 
no  one  read  the  others,  and  I mightn’t  do  even  as  well 
if  I tried  again.”  Paul  Alexis,  Leon  Diex,  Pissarro, 
Cahaner,  are  also  frequently  seen  in  the  “Nouvelle 
Athenes.” 

Cabaner ! the  world  knows  not  the  names  of  those 
who  scorn  the  world : somewhere  in  one  of  the  great 
populous  churchyards  of  Paris  there  is  a forgotten 
grave,  and  there  lies  Cabaner.  Cabaner ! since  the  be- 
ginning there  have  been,  till  the  end  of  time  there 
shall  be  Cabaners ; and  they  shall  live  miserably  and 
they  shall  die  miserable,  and  shall  be  forgotten ; and 
there  shall  never  arise  a novelist  great  enough  to  make 
live  in  art  that  eternal  spirit  of  devotion,  disinterest- 
edness, and  aspiration,  which  in  each  generation  in- 
carnates itself  in  one  heroic  soul.  Better  than  those 
who  stepped  to  opulence  and  fame  upon  thee  fallen 
thou  wert ; better,  loftier-minded,  purer ; thy  destiny 
was  to  fall  that  others  might  rise  upon  thee,  thou  wert 
one  of  the  noble  legion  of  the  conquered ; let  praise  be 
given  to  the  conquered,  for  the  brunt  of  victory 
lies  with  the  conquered.  Child  of  the  pavement,  of 
strange  sonnets  and  stranger  music,  I remember  thee ; 
I remember  the  silk  shirts,  the  four  sous  of  Italian 
cheese,  the  roll  of  bread,  and  the  glass  of  milk ; — the 
streets  were  thy  dining-room.  And  the  five-mile  walk 
daily  to  the  suburban  music  hall  where  five  francs 


92  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


were  earned  by  playing  the  accompaniments  of  comic 
songs.  And  the  wonderful  room  on  the  fifth  floor, 
which  was  furnished  when  that  celebrated  heritage  of 
two  thousand  francs  was  paid.  I remember  the  foun- 
tain that  was  bought  for  a wardrobe,  and  the  Ameri- 
can organ  with  all  the  instruments  of  the  orchestra, 
and  the  plaster  casts  under  which  the  homeless  ones 
that  were  never  denied  a refuge  and  a crust  by  thee 
slept.  I remember  all,  and  the  buying  of  the  life- 
size  “Venus  de  Milo.”  Something  extraordinary 
would  be  done  with  it,  I knew,  but  the  result  exceeded 
my  wildest  expectation.  The  head  must  needs  be 
struck  off,  so  that  the  rapture  of  thy  admiration 
should  be  secure  from  all  jarring  reminiscence  of  the 
streets. 

Then  the  wonderful  story  of  the  tenor,  the  pork 
butcher,  who  was  heard  giving  out  such  a volume 
of  sound  that  the  sausages  were  set  in  motion  above 
him;  he  was  fed,  clothed,  and  educated  on  the  five 
francs  a day  earned  in  the  music  hall  in  the  Avenue 
de  la  Motte  Piquet ; and  when  he  made  his  debut  at 
the  Theatre  Lyrique,  thou  wert  in  the  last  stage  of 
consumption  and  too  ill  to  go  to  hear  thy  pupil’s  suc- 
cess. He  was  immediately  engaged  by  Mapleson  and 
taken  to  America. 

I remember  thy  face,  Cabaner;  I can  see  it  now 
— that  long  sallow  face  ending  in  a brown  beard,  and 
the  hollow  eyes,  the  meagre  arms  covered  with  a silk 
shirt,  contrasting  strangely  with  the  rest  of  the  dress. 
In  all  thy  privation  and  poverty,  thou  didst  never 
forego  thy  silk  shirt.  I remember  the  paradoxes  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  93 


the  aphorisms,  if  not  the  exact  words,  the  glamour 
and  the  sentiment  of  a humour  that  was  all  thy 
own.  Never  didst  thou  laugh;  no,  not  even  when  in 
discussing  how  silence  might  be  rendered  in  music, 
thou  didst  say,  with  thy  extraordinary  Pyrenean 
accent,  “Pour  rendre  le  silence  en  music  il  me 
faudrait  trois  orchestres  militaires.”  And  when  I 
did  show  thee  some  poor  verses  of  mine,  French 
verses,  for  at  this  time  I hated  and  had  partly  for- 
gotten my  native  language — 

“My  dear  Dayne,  you  always  write  about  love,  the 
subject  is  nauseating.” 

“So  it  is,  so  it  is;  but  after  all  Baudelaire  wrote 
about  love  and  lovers ; his  best  poem.  . . 

“C’est  vrai , mais  il  sagissait  d’une  charogne  et  cela 
releve  beaucoup  la  chose/' 

I remember,  too,  a few  stray  snatches  of  thy  ex- 
traordinary music,  “music  that  might  be  considered 
by  Wagner  as  a little  too  advanced,  but  which  Liszt 
would  not  fail  to  understand;”  also  thy  settings  of 
sonnets  where  the  melody  was  continued  uninter- 
ruptedly from  the  first  line  to  the  last ; and  that  still 
more  marvellous  feat,  thy  setting,  likewise  with  un- 
broken melody,  of  Villon’s  ballade  “Les  Dames  du 
Temps  Jadis;”  and  that  Out-Cabanering  of  Cabaner, 
the  putting  to  music  of  Cros’s  “Hareng  Saur.” 

And  why  didst  thou  remain  ever  poor  and  un- 
known? Because  of  something  too  much,  or  some- 
thing too  little  ? Because  of  something  too  much ! so 
I think,  at  least;  thy  heart  was  too  full  of  too  pure 


94  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


an  ideal,  too  far  removed  from  all  possible  contagion 
with  the  base  crowd. 

But,  Cabaner,  thou  didst  not  labour  in  vain;  thy 
destiny,  though  obscure,  was  a valiant  and  fruitful 
one ; and,  as  in  life,  thou  didst  live  for  others  so  now 
in  death  thou  dost  live  in  others.  Thou  wert  in  an 
hour  of  wonder  and  strange  splendour  when  the  last 
tints  and  lovelinesses  of  romance  lingered  in  the  deep- 
ening west;  when  out  of  the  clear  east  rose  with  a 
mighty  effulgence  of  colour  and  lawless  light  Real- 
ism; when  showing  aloft  in  the  dead  pallor  of  the 
zenith,  like  a white  flag  fluttering  faintly,  Symbolists 
and  Decadents  appeared.  Never  before  was  there  so 
sudden  a flux  and  conflux  of  artistic  desire,  such  as- 
piration in  the  soul  of  man,  such  rage  of  passion,  such 
fainting  fever,  such  cerebral  erethism.  The  roar  and 
dust  of  the  daily  battle  of  the  Realists  was  continued 
under  the  flush  of  the  sunset,  the  arms  of  the  Ro- 
mantics glittered,  the  pale  spiritual  Symbolists 
watched  and  waited,  none  knowing  yet  of  their  pres- 
ence. In  such  an  hour  of  artistic  convulsion  and  re- 
newal of  thought  thou  wert,  and  thou  wert  a mag- 
nificent rallying  point  for  all  comers;  it  was  thou 
who  didst  theorise  our  confused  aspirations,  and  by 
thy  holy  example  didst  save  us  from  all  base  com- 
mercialism, from  all  hateful  prostitution;  thou  wert 
ever  our  high  priest,  and  from  thy  high  altar  turned 
to  us  the  white  host,  the  ideal,  the  true  and  living 
God  of  all  men. 

Cabaner,  I see  you  now  entering  the  “Nouvelle 
Athenes;”  you  are  a little  tired  after  your  long  weary 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  95 


walk,  but  you  lament  not  and  you  never  cry  out 
against  the  public  that  will  accept  neither  your  music 
nor  your  poetry.  But  though  you  are  tired  and  foot- 
sore, you  are  ready  to  sestheticise  till  the  cafe  closes ; 
for  you  the  homeless  ones  are  waiting : there  they  are, 
some  three  or  four,  and  you  will  take  them  to  your 
strange  room,  furnished  with  the  American  organ,  the 
fountain,  and  the  decapitated  Venus,  and  you  give 
them  a crust  each  and  cover  them  with  what  clothes 
you  have ; and,  when  clothes  are  lacking,  with  plaster 
casts,  and  though  you  will  take  but  a glass  of  milk 
yourself,  you  will  find  a few  sous  to  give  them  lager 
to  cool  their  thirsty  throats.  So  you  have  ever  lived 
■ — a blameless  life  is  yours,  no  base  thought  has  ever 
entered  there,  not  even  a woman’s  love;  art  and 
friends,  that  is  all. 

Header,  do  you  know  of  anything  more  angelic  ? If 
you  do  you  are  more  fortunate  than  I have  been. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  NOUVELLE  ATHENES 

TWO  dominant  notes  in  my  character — an  orig- 
inal hatred  of  my  native  country,  and  a brutal 
loathing  of  the  religion  I was  brought  up  in.  All 
the  aspects  of  my  native  country  are  violently  dis- 
agreeable to  me,  and  I cannot  think  of  the  place  I was 
born  in  without  a sensation  akin  to  nausea.  Thesf 
feelings  are  inherent  and  inveterate  in  me.  I am 
instinctively  averse  to  my  own  countrymen ; they  are 
at  once  remote  and  repulsive;  but  with  Frenchmen  I 
am  conscious  of  a sense  of  nearness;  I am  one  with 
them  in  their  ideas  and  aspirations,  and  when  I am 
with  them,  I am  alive  with  a keen  and  penetrating 
sense  of  intimacy.  Shall  I explain  this  by  atavism  ? 
Was  there  a French  man  or  woman  in  my  family 
some  half  dozen  generations  ago?  I have  not  in- 
quired. The  English  I love,  and  with  a love  that  is 
foolish — mad,  limitless;  I love  them  better  than  the 
French,  but  I am  not  so  near  to  them.  Dear,  sweet 
Protestant  England,  the  red  tiles  of  the  farmhouse, 
the  elms,  the  great  hedgerows,  and  all  the  rich  fields 
adorned  with  spreading  trees,  and  the  weald  and  the 
wold,  the  very  words  are  passionately  beautiful  . . . 
southern  England,  not  the  north — there  is  something 

96 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  97 


Celtic  in  the  north, — southern  England,  with  its 
quiet,  steadfast  faces; — a smock  frock  is  to  me  one 
of  the  most  delightful  things  in  the  world ; it  is  so  ab- 
solutely English.  The  villages  clustered  round  the 
greens,  the  spires  of  the  churches  pointing  between 
the  elm  trees.  . . . This  is  congenial  to  me ; and  this 
is  Protestantism.  England  is  Protestantism,  Protest- 
antism is  England.  Protestantism  is  strong,  clean, 
and  westernly,  Catholicism  is  eunuch-like,  dirty,  and 
Oriental.  . . . Yes,  Oriental;  there  is  something 
even  Chinese  about  it.  What  made  England  great 
was  Protestantism,  and  when  she  ceases  to  be  Protest- 
ant she  will  fall.  . . . Look  at  the  nations  that  have 
clung  to  Catholicism,  starving  moonlighters  and 
starving  brigands.  The  Protestant  flag  floats  on 
every  ocean  breeze,  the  Catholic  banner  hangs  limp 
in  the  incense  silence  of  the  Vatican.  Let  us  be 
Protestant,  and  revere  Cromwell. 


Gargon,  un  bock!  I write  to  please  myself,  just 
as  I order  my  dinner ; if  my  books  sell  I cannot  help 
it — it  is  an  accident. 

But  you  live  by  writing. 

Yes,  but  life  is  only  an  accident — art  is  eternal. 


What  I reproach  Zola  with  is  that  he  has  no  style ; 
there  is  nothing  you  won’t  find  in  Zola  from 
Chateaubriand  to  the  reporting  in  the  Figaro . 

He  seeks  immortality  in  an  exact  description  of  a 
linendraper’s  shop ; if  the  shop  conferred  immortality 


98  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


it  should  be  upon  the  linendraper  who  created  the 
shop,  and  not  on  the  novelist  who  described  it. 

And  his  last  novel  “TGEuvre,”  how  terribly  spun 
out,  and  for  a franc  a line  in  the  “Gil  Bias.”  Not  a 
single  new  or  even  exact  observation.  And  that  ter- 
rible phrase  repeated  over  and  over  again — “La  Con- 
quete  de  Paris.”  What  does  it  mean  ? I never  knew 
any  one  who  thought  of  conquering  Paris; — no  one 
ever  spoke  of  conquering  Paris  except,  perhaps,  two 
or  three  provincials. 


You  must  have  rules  in  poetry,  if  it  is  only  for  the 
pleasure  of  breaking  them,  just  as  you  must  have 
women  dressed,  if  it  is  only  for  the  pleasure  of 
imagining  them  as  Venuses. 


Fancy,  a banquet  was  given  to  Julien  by  his 
pupils ! He  made  a speech  in  favour  of  Lefevre,  and 
hoped  that  every  one  there  would  vote  for  Lefevre. 
Julien  was  very  eloquent.  He  spoke  of  Le  grand  art , 
le  nu , and  Lefevre’s  unswerving  fidelity  to  le  nu  . . . 
elegance,  refinement,  an  echo  of  ancient  Greece:  and 
then, — what  do  you  think  ? when  he  had  exhausted  all 
the  reasons  why  the  medal  of  honour  should  be  ac- 
corded to  Lefevre,  he  said,  “I  ask  you  to  remember, 
gentlemen,  that  he  has  a wife  and  eight  children.”  Is 
it  not  monstrous  ? 


But  it  is  you  who  are  monstrous,  you  who  expect 
to  fashion  the  whole  world  in  conformity  with  your 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  99 


aestheticisms  ...  a vain  dream,  and  if  realised  it 
would  result  in  an  impossible  world.  A wife  and 
children  are  the  basis  of  existence,  and  it  is  folly  to 
cry  out  because  an  appeal  to  such  interests  as  these 
meet  with  response  ...  it  will  be  so  till  the  end  of 
time. 


And  these  great  interests  that  are  to  continue  to 
the  end  of  time  began  two  years  ago,  when  your  pic- 
tures were  not  praised  in  the  Figaro  as  much  as  you 
thought  they  should  be. 


Marriage — what  an  abomination ! Love — yes,  but 
not  marriage.  Love  cannot  exist  in  marriage,  because 
love  is  an  ideal;  that  is  to  say,  something  not  quite 
understood — transparencies,  colour,  light,  a sense  of 
the  unreal.  But  a wife — you  know  all  about  her — 
who  her  father  was,  who  her  mother  was,  what  she 
thinks  of  you  and  her  opinion  of  the  neighbours  over 
the  way.  Where,  then,  is  the  dream,  the  au  dela? 
There  is  none.  I say  in  marriage  an  au  deld  is  im- 
possible. . . . the  endless  duet  of  the  marble  and  the 
water,  the  enervation  of  burning  odours,  the  bap- 
tismal whiteness  of  women,  light,  ideal  tissues,  eyes 
strangely  dark  with  kohl,  names  that  evoke  palm 
trees  and  ruins,  Spanish  moonlight  or  maybe  Persep- 
olis.  The  monosyllable  which  epitomises  the  ennui 
and  the  prose  of  our  lives  is  heard  not,  thought  not 
there — only  the  nightingale-harmony  of  an  eternal 


100  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


yes.  Freedom  limitless;  the  Mahometan  stands  on 
the  verge  of  the  abyss,  and  the  spaces  of  perfume  and 
colour  extend  and  invite  him  with  the  whisper  of  a 
sweet  unending  yes.  The  unknown,  the  unreal.  . . . 
Thus  love  is  possible,  there  is  a delusion,  an  au  deld . 


Good  heavens ! and  the  world  still  believes  in  edu- 
cation, in  teaching  people  the  “grammar  of  art.” 
Education  is  fatal  to  any  one  with  a spark  of  artistic 
feeling.  Education  should  be  confined  to  clerks,  and 
even  them  it  drives  to  drink.  Will  the  world  learn 
that  we  never  learn  anything  that  we  did  not  know 
before  ? The  artist,  the  poet,  painter,  musician,  and 
novelist  go  straight  to  the  food  they  want,  guided  by 
an  unerring  and  ineffable  instinct ; to  teach  them  is 
to  destroy  the  nerve  of  the  artistic  instinct,  it  is  fatal. 
But  above  all  in  painting  . . . “correct  drawing,” 
“solid  painting.”  Is  it  impossible  to  teach  people,  to 
force  it  into  their  heads  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  correct  drawing,  and  that  if  drawing  were  correct 
it  would  be  wrong?  Solid  painting;  good  heavens! 
Do  they  suppose  that  there  is  one  sort  of  painting 
that  is  better  than  all  others,  and  that  there  is  a re- 
ceipt for  making  it  as  for  making  chocolate ! Art  is 
not  mathematics,  it  is  individuality.  It  does  not  mat- 
ter how  badly  you  paint,  so  long  as  you  don’t  paint 
badly  like  other  people.  Education  destroys  indi- 
viduality. That  great  studio  of  Julien’s  is  a sphinx, 
and  all  the  poor  folk  that  go  there  for  artistic  educa- 
tion are  devoured.  After  two  years  they  all  paint 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  101 


and  draw  alike,  every  one ; that  vile  execution, — they 
call  it  execution, — la  poet,  la  peinture  an  premier 
coup . I was  over  in  England  last  year,  and  I saw 
some  portraits  by  a man  called  Richmond.  They 
were  horrible,  but  I liked  them  because  they  weren’t 
like  painting.  Stott  and  Sargent  are  clever  fellows 
enough ; I like  Stott  the  best.  If  they  had  remained 
at  home  and  hadn’t  been  taught,  they  might  have  de- 
veloped a personal  art,  but  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is 
over  all  they  do — that  vile  French  painting,  le  mor- 
ceau , etc.  Stott  is  getting  over  it  by  degrees.  He 
exhibited  a nymph  this  year.  I know  what  he  meant ; 
it  was  an  interesting  intention.  I liked  his  little  land- 
scapes better  . . . simplified  into  nothing,  into  a 
couple  of  primitive  tints,  wonderful  clearness,  light. 
But  I doubt  if  he  will  find  a public  to  understand 
all  that. 


Democratic  art!  Art  is  the  direct  antithesis  to 
democracy.  . . . Athens ! a few  thousand  citizens  who 
owned  many  thousand  slaves,  call  that  democracy! 
No ! what  I am  speaking  of  is  modern  democracy — • 
the  mass.  The  mass  can  only  appreciate  simple  and 
naive  emotions,  puerile  prettiness,  above  all  conven- 
tionalities. See  the  Americans  that  come  over  here; 
what  do  they  admire?  Is  it  Degas  or  Manet  they 
admire?  No,  Bouguereau  and  Lefevre.  What  was 
most  admired  at  the  International  Exhibition  ? — The 
Dirty  Boy.  And  if  the  medal  of  honour  had  been 
decided  by  a plebiscite , the  dirty  boy  would  have  had 


102  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


an  overwhelming  majority.  What  is  the  literature 
of  the  people?  The  idiotic  stories  of  the  Petit 
Journal . Don’t  talk  of  Shakespeare,  Moliere,  and 
the  masters ; they  are  accepted  on  the  authority  of  the 
centuries.  If  the  people  could  understand  Hamlet, 
the  people  would  not  read  the  Petit  Jornmcd;  if  the 
people  could  understand  Michel  Angelo,  they  would 
not  look  at  our  Bouguereau  or  your  Bouguereau,  Sir 
F.  Leighton.  For  the  last  hundred  years  we  have 
been  going  rapidly  towards  democracy,  and  what  is 
the  result  ? The  destruction  of  the  handicrafts.  That 
there  are  still  good  pictures  painted  and  good  poems 
written  proves  nothing,  there  will  always  be  found 
men  to  sacrifice  their  lives  for  a picture  or  a poem. 
But  the  decorative  arts  which  are  executed  in  collab- 
oration, and  depend  for  support  on  the  general  taste 
of  a large  number,  have  ceased  to  exist.  Explain  that 
if  you  can.  Fll  give  you  five  thousand,  ten  thousand 
francs  to  buy  a beautiful  clock  that  is  not  a copy  and 
is  not  ancient,  and  you  can’t  do  it.  Such  a thing  does 
not  exist.  Look  here;  I was  going  up  the  staircase 
of  the  Louvre  the  other  day.  They  were  putting  up  a 
mosaic;  it  was  horrible;  every  one  knows  it  is  hor- 
rible. Well,  I asked  who  had  given  the  order  for  this 
mosaic,  and  I could  not  find  out;  no  one  knew.  An 
order  is  passed  from  bureau  to  bureau,  and  no  one 
is  responsible ; and  it  will  be  always  so  in  a republic, 
and  the  more  republican  you  are  the  worse  it  will  be. 

The  world  is  dying  of  machinery ; that  is  the  great 
disease,  that  is  the  plague  that  will  sweep  away  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  103 


destroy  civilisation ; man  will  have  to  rise  against  it 
sooner  or  later.  . . . Capital,  unpaid  labour,  wage- 
slaves,  and  all  the  rest — stuff.  . . . Look  at  these 
plates;  they  were  painted  by  machinery;  they  are 
abominable.  Look  at  them.  In  old  times  plates  were 
painted  by  the  hand,  and  the  supply  was  necessarily 
limited  to  the  demand,  and  a china  in  which  there 
was  always  something  more  or  less  pretty,  was  turned 
out;  but  now  thousands,  millions  of  plates  are  made 
more  than  we  want,  and  there  is  a commercial  crisis ; 
the  thing  is  inevitable.  I say  the  great  and  the  rea- 
sonable revolution  will  be  when  mankind  rises  in  re- 
volt, and  smashes  the  machinery  and  restores  the 
handicrafts. 


Goncourt  is  not  an  artist,  notwithstanding  all  his 
affectation  and  outcries;  he  is  not  an  artist.  II  me 
fait  Veffet  of  an  old  woman  shrieking  after  im- 
mortality and  striving  to  beat  down  some  fragment 
of  it  with  a broom.  Once  it  was  a duet,  now  it  is  a 
solo.  They  wrote  novels,  history,  plays,  they  col- 
lected bric-a-brac — they  wrote  about  their  bric-a-brac ; 
they  painted  in  water-colours,  they  etched — they 
wrote  about  their  water-colours  and  etchings;  they 
have  made  a will  settling  that  the  bric-a-brac  is  to  be 
sold  at  their  death,  and  the  proceeds  applied  to  found- 
ing a prize  for  the  best  essay  or  novel,  I forget  which 
it  is.  They  wrote  about  the  prize  they  are  going  to 
found ; they  kept  a diary,  they  wrote  down  everything 
they  heard*  felt*  or  saw*  radptage  de  vieille  femme ; 


104  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


nothing  must  escape,  not  the  slightest  word ; it  might 
be  that  very  word  that  might  confer  on  them  im- 
mortality ; everything  they  heard,  or  said,  must  be  of 
value,  of  inestimable  value.  A real  artist  does  not 
trouble  himself  about  immortality,  about  everything 
he  hears,  feels,  and  says;  he  treats  ideas  and  sensa- 
tions as  so  much  clay  wherewith  to  create. 

And  then  the  famous  collaboration;  how  it  was 
talked  about,  written  about,  prayed  about ; and  when 
Jules  died,  what  a subject  for  talk  for  articles;  it  all 
went  into  pot.  Hugo’s  vanity  was  Titanic,  Gon- 
court’s  is  puerile. 

And  Daudet  ? 

Oh,  Daudet,  c’est  de  la  bouillabaisse. 


Whistler,  of  all  artists,  is  the  least  impressionist; 
the  idea  people  have  of  his  being  an  impressionist 
only  proves  once  again  the  absolute  inability  of  the 
public  to  understand  the  merits  or  the  demerits 
of  artistic  work.  Whistler’s  art  is  absolutely  class- 
ical ; he  thinks  of  nature,  but  he  does  not  see  nature ; 
he  is  guided  by  his  mind,  and  not  by  his  eyes;  and 
the  best  of  it  is  he  says  so.  Oh,  he  knows  it  well 
enough ! Any  one  who  knows  him  must  have  heard 
him  say,  “Painting  is  absolutely  scientific;  it  is  an 
exact  science.”  And  his  work  is  in  accord  with  his 
theory;  he  risks  nothing,  all  is  brought  down,  ar* 
ranged,  balanced,  and  made  one, — a well-determined 
mental  conception.  I admire  his  work ; I am  merely 
showing  how  he  is  misunderstood,  even  by  those  who 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  105 

think  they  understand.  Does  he  ever  seek  a pose  that 
is  characteristic  of  the  model,  a pose  that  the  model 
repeats  oftener  than  any  other? — Never.  He  ad- 
vances the  foot,  puts  the  hand  on  the  hip,  etc.,  with  a 
view  to  rendering  his  idea . Take  his  portrait  of 
Duret.  Did  he  ever  see  Duret  in  dress  clothes? 
Probably  not.  Did  he  ever  see  Duret  with  a lady’s 
opera  cloak? — I am  sure  he  never  did.  Is  Duret  in 
the  habit  of  going  to  the  theatre  with  ladies?  No; 
he  is  a litterateur  who  is  always  in  men’s  society, 
rarely  in  ladies’.  But  these  facts  mattered  nothing 
to  Whistler  as  they  matter  to  Degas,  or  to  Manet. 
Whistler  took  Duret  out  of  his  environment,  dressed 
him  up,  thought  out  a scheme — in  a word,  painted  his 
idea  without  concerning  himself  in  the  least  with  the 
model.  Mark  you,  I deny  that  I am  urging  any 
fault  or  flaw ; I am  merely  contending  that  Whistler’s 
art  is  not  modern  art,  but  classic  art — yes,  and  se- 
verely classical,  far  more  classical  than  Titian’s  or 
Velasquez ; — from  an  opposite  pole  as  classical  as  In- 
gres. No  Greek  dramatist  ever  sought  the  synthesis 
of  things  more  uncompromisingly  than  Whistler. 
And  he  is  right.  Art  is  not  nature.  Art  is  nature 
digested.  Art  is  a sublime  excrement.  Zola  and  Gon- 
court  cannot,  or  will  not  understand  that  the  artistic 
stomach  must  be  allowed  to  do  its  work  in  its  own 
mysterious  fashion.  If  a man  is  really  an  artist  he 
will  remember  what  is  necessary,  forget  what  is  use- 
less; but  if  he  takes  notes  he  will  interrupt  his  ar- 
tistic digestion,  and  the  result  will  be  a lot  of  little 


106  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


touches,  inchoate  and  wanting  in  the  elegant  rhythm 
of  the  synthesis. 


I am  sick  of  synthetical  art ; we  want  observation 
direct  and  unreasoned.  What  I reproach  Millet  with 
is  that  it  is  always  the  same  thing,  the  same  peasant, 
the  same  sabot , the  same  sentiment.  You  must  admit 
that  it  is  somewhat  stereotyped. 


What  does  that  matter;  what  is  more  stereotyped 
than  Japanese  art?  But  that  does  not  prevent  it 
from  being  always  beautiful. 


People  talk  of  Manet’s  originality;  that  is  just 
what  I can’t  see.  What  he  has  got,  and  what  you 
can’t  take  away  from  him,  is  a magnificent  execu- 
tion. A piece  of  still  life  by  Manet  is  the  most  won- 
derful thing  in  the  world ; vividness  of  colour, 
breadth,  simplicity,  and  directness  of  touch — mar- 
vellous ! 


French  translation  is  the  only  translation;  in  Eng- 
land you  still  continue  to  translate  poetry  into  poetry, 
instead  of  into  prose.  We  used  to  do  the  same,  but 
we  have  long  ago  renounced  such  follies.  Either  of 
two  things — if  the  translator  is  a good  poet,  he  sub- 
stitutes his  verse  for  that  of  the  original; — I don’t 
want  his  verse,  I want  the  original ; — if  he  is  a bad 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  107 


poet,  he  gives  us  bad  verse,  which  is  intolerable. 
Where  the  original  poet  put  an  effect  of  caesura,  the 
translator  puts  an  effect  of  rhyme;  where  the  orig- 
inal poet  puts  an  effect  of  rhyme,  the  translator  puts 
an  effect  of  caesura.  Take  Longfellow’s  “Dante.” 
Does  it  give  as  good  an  idea  of  the  original  as  our 
prose  translation  ? Is  it  as  interesting  reading  ? Take 
Bayard  Taylor’s  translation  of  “Goethe.”  Is  it  read* 
able?  Not  to  any  one  with  an  ear  for  verse.  Will 
any  one  say  that  Taylor’s  would  be  read  if  the  origj 
inal  did  not  exist.  The  fragment  translated  by  Shel- 
ley is  beautiful,  but  then  it  is  Shelley.  Look  at  Swin- 
burne’s translations  of  Villon.  They  are  beautiful 
poems  by  Swinburne,  that  is  all;  he  makes  Villon 
speak  of  a “splendid  kissing  mouth.”  Villon  could 
not  have  done  this  unless  he  had  read  Swinburne. 
“Heine,”  translated  by  James  Thomson,  is  not  differ- 
ent from  Thomson’s  original  poems ; “Heine,”  trans- 
lated by  Sir  Theodore  Martin,  is  doggerel. 


But  in  English  blank  verse  you  can  translate  quite 
as  literally  as  you  could  into  prose  ? 


I doubt  it,  but  even  so,  the  rhythm  of  the  blank 
line  would  carry  your  mind  away  from  that  of  the 
original. 


But  if  you  don’t  know  the  original  ? 


108  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


The  rhythm  of  the  original  can  be  suggested  in 
prose  judiciously  used ; even  if  it  isn’t,  your  mind  is 
at  least  free,  whereas  the  English  rhythm  must  de- 
stroy the  sensation  of  something  foreign.  There  is 
no  translation  except  a word-for-word  translation. 
Baudelaire’s  translation  of  Poe,  and  Hugo’s  transla- 
tion of  Shakespeare,  are  marvellous  in  this  respect ; a 
pun  or  joke  that  is  untranslatable  is  explained  in 
a note. 


But  that  is  the  way  young  ladies  translate — word 
for  word ! 


No;  ’tis  just  what  they  don’t  do;  they  think  they 
are  translating  word  for  word,  but  they  aren’t.  Ail 
the  proper  names,  no  matter  how  unpronounceable, 
must  be  rigidly  adhered  to ; you  must  never  transpose 
versts  into  kilometres,  or  roubles  into  francs; — I 
don’t  know  what  a verst  is  or  what  a rouble  is,  but 
when  I see  the  words  I am  in  Russia.  Every  proverb 
must  be  rendered  literally,  even  if  it  doesn’t  make 
very  good  sense;  if  it  doesn’t  make  sense  at  all,  it 
must  be  explained  in  a note.  For  example,  there  is  a 
proverb  in  German:  “Quand  le  cheval  est  selle  il 
faut  le  monter in  French  there  is  a proverb: 
“Quand  le  vin  est  tire  il  faut  le  boire”  Well,  a trans- 
lator who  would  translate  quand  le  cheval,  etc., 
by  quand  le  vin,  etc.,  is  an  ass,  and  does  not  know  his 
business.  In  translation,  only  a strictly  classical  lan- 
guage should  be  used ; no  word  of  slang,  or  even  word 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  109 

of  modem  origin  should  be  employed ; the  translator’s 
aim  should  be  never  to  dissipate  the  illusion  of  an 
exotic.  If  I were  translating  the  “Assommoir’’  into 
English,  I should  strive  after  a strong,  flexible,  but 
colourless  language,  something — what  shall  I say  ? — 
a sort  of  a modern  Addison. 


What,  don’t  you  know  the  story  about  Mendes? 
— when  Chose  wanted  to  marry  his  sister  ? Chose' s 
mother,  it  appears,  went  to  live  with  a priest.  The 
poor  fellow  was  dreadfully  cut  up;  he  was  broken- 
hearted; and  he  went  to  Mendes,  his  heart  swollen 
with  grief,  determined  to  make  a clean  breast  of  it, 
let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst.  After  a great 
deal  of  beating  about  the  bush,  and  apologising,  he 
got  it  out.  You  know  Mendes,  you  can  see  him 
smiling  a little ; and  looking  at  Chose  with  that  white 
cameo  face  of  his  he  said,  “Avec  quel  meilleur  homme 
voulez-vous  que  votre  mere  se  fit ? vous  n'avez  done , 
jeune  homme , aucun  sentiment  religieux  ” 


Victor  Hugo,  he  is  a painter  on  porcelain;  his 
verse  is  mere  decoration,  long  tendrils  and  flowers; 
and  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again. 


How  to  be  happy! — not  to  read  Baudelaire  and 
Verlaine,  not  to  enter  the  Nouvelle  Athenes , unless 
perhaps  to  play  dominoes  like  the  bourgeois  over 
there,  not  to  do  anything  that  would  awake  a too 


110  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


intense  consciousness  of  life, — to  live  in  a sleepy 
country  side,  to  have  a garden  to  work  in,  to  have  a 
wife  and  children,  to  chatter  quietly  every  evening 
over  the  details  of  existence.  We  must  have  the 
azaleas  out  to-morrow  and  thoroughly  cleansed,  they 
are  devoured  by  insects;  the  tame  rook  has  flown 
away;  mother  lost  her  prayer-book  coming  from 
church,  she  thinks  it  was  stolen.  A good,  honest, 
well-to-do  peasant,  who  knows  nothing  of  politics, 
must  be  very  nearly  happy ; — and  to  think  there  are 
people  who  would  educate,  who  would  draw  these 
people  out  of  the  calm  satisfaction  of  their  in- 
stincts, and  give  them  passions ! The  philanthropist 
is  the  Nero  of  modern  times. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


EXTRACT  FROM  A LETTER 

WHY  did  you  not  send  a letter?  We  have  all 
been  writing  to  you  for  the  last  six  months, 
but  no  answer — none.  Had  you  written  one  word 
I would  have  saved  all.  The  poor  concierge  was  in 
despair ; she  said  the  proprietaire  would  wait  if  you 
had  only  said  when  you  were  coming  back,  or  if  you 
only  had  let  us  know  what  you  wished  to  be  done. 
Three  quarters  rent  was  due,  and  no  news  could  be 
obtained  of  you,  so  an  auction  had  to  be  called.  It 
nearly  broke  my  heart  to  see  those  horrid  men  tramp- 
ing over  the  delicate  carpets,  their  coarse  faces  set 
against  the  sweet  colour  of  that  beautiful  English  ore* 
tonne.  . . . And  all  the  while  the  pastel  by  Manet, 
the  great  hat  set  like  an  aureole  about  the  face — 
‘the  eyes  deep  set  in  crimson  shadow/  ‘the  fan  wide- 
spread across  the  bosom’  (you  see  I am  quoting  your 
own  words),  looking  down,  the  mistress  of  that  little 
paradise  of  tapestry.  She  seemed  to  resent  the  intru- 
sion. I looked  once  or  twice  half  expecting  those 
eyes  ‘deep  set  in  crimson  shadow’  to  fill  with  tears. 
But  nothing  altered  her  great  dignity;  she  seemed 
to  see  all,  but  as  a Buddha  she  remained  impene- 
trable. . . . 

Ul  ~ 


112  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


“I  was  there  the  night  before  the  sale.  I looked 
through  the  books,  taking  notes  of  those  I intended 
to  buy — those  which  we  used  to  read  together  when 
the  snow  lay  high  about  the  legs  of  the  poor  faun  in 
terre  cuite , that  laughed  amid  the  frosty  boulingrins. 
I found  a large  packet  of  letters  which  I instantly 
destroyed.  You  should  not  be  so  careless;  I wonder 
how  it  is  that  men  are  always  careless  about  their 
letters. 

“The  sale  was  announced  for  one  o’clock.  I wore 
a thick  veil,  for  I did  not  wish  to  be  recognised ; the 
concierge  of  course  knew  me,  but  she  can  be  depended 
upon.  The  poor  old  woman  was  in  tears,  so  sorry 
was  she  to  see  all  your  pretty  things  sold  up.  You 
left  owing  her  a hundred  francs,  but  I have  paid 
her ; and  talking  of  you  we  waited  till  the  auctioneer 
arrived.  Everything  had  been  pulled  down ; the  tap- 
estry from  the  walls,  the  picture,  the  two  vases  I gave 
you  were  on  the  table  waiting  the  stroke  of  the  ham- 
mer. And  then  the  men,  all  the  marchands  de 
meubles  in  the  quartier , came  upstairs,  spitting  and 
talking  coarsely — their  foul  voices  went  through  me. 
They  stamped,  spat,  pulled  the  things  about,  nothing 
escaped  them.  One  of  them  held  up  the  Japanese 
dressing-gown  and  made  some  horrible  jokes;  and 
the  auctioneer,  who  was  a humorist,  answered,  “If 
there  are  any  ladies’  men  present,  we  shall  have 
some  spirited  bidding.”  The  pastel  I bought,  and  I 
shall  keep  it  and  try  to  find  some  excuse  to  satisfy  my 
husband,  but  I send  you  the  miniature,  and  I hope 
you  will  not  let  it  be  sold  again.  There  were  many 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  113 


other  things  I should  have  liked  to  have  bought  but 
I did  not  dare — the  organ  that  you  used  to  play 
hymns  on  and  I waltzes  on,  the  Turkish  lamp  which 
we  could  never  agree  about  . . . but  when  I saw  the 
satin  shoes  which  I gave  you  to  carry  the  night  of 
that  adorable  ball,  and  which  you  would  not  give 
back,  but  nailed  up  on  the  wall  on  either  side  of 
your  bed  and  put  matches  in,  I was  seized  with  an 
almost  invincible  desire  to  steal  them.  I don’t  know 
why,  un  caprice  de  femme.  No  one  but  you  would 
have  ever  thought  of  converting  satin  shoes  into 
match  boxes.  I wore  them  at  that  delicious  ball ; we 
danced  all  night  together,  and  you  had  an  explana- 
tion with  my  husband  (I  was  a little  afraid  for  a 
moment,  but  it  came  out  all  right),  and  we  went  and 
sat  on  the  balcony  in  the  soft  warm  moonlight;  we 
watched  the  glitter  of  epaulets  and  gas,  the  satin 
of  the  bodices,  the  whiteness  of  passing  shoulders; 
we  dreamed  the  massy  darknesses  of  the  park,  the 
fairy  light  along  the  lawny  spaces,  the  heavy  perfume 
of  the  flowers,  the  pink  of  the  camellias;  and  you 
quoted  something:  ‘les  camelias  du  balcon  ressemblent 
d des  desirs  mourants / It  was  horrid  of  you:  but 
you  always  had  a knack  of  rubbing  one  up  the 
wrong  way.  Then  do  you  not  remember  how  we 
danced  in  one  room,  while  the  servants  set  the  other 
out  with  little  tables  ? That  supper  was  fascinating ! 
I suppose  it  was  these  pleasant  remembrances  which 
made  me  wish  for  the  shoes,  but  I could  not  summon 
up  courage  enough  to  buy  them,  and  the  horrid 
people  were  comparing  me  with  the  pastel ; I suppose 


114  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


I did  look  a little  mysterious  with  a double  veil  bound 
across  my  face.  The  shoes  went  with  a lot  of  other 
things — and  oh,  to  whom? 

“So  now  that  pretty  little  retreat  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Tour  des  Dames  is  ended  for  ever  for  you  and 
me.  We  shall  not  see  the  faun  in  terre  cuite  again; 
I was  thinking  of  going  to  see  him  the  other  day, 
but  the  street  is  so  steep;  my  coachman  advised  me 
to  spare  the  horse’s  hind  legs.  I believe  it  is  the' 
steepest  street  in  Paris.  And  your  luncheon  parties, 
how  I did  enjoy  them,  and  how  Fay  did  enjoy  them 
too ; and  what  I risked,  shortsighted  as  I am,  picking 
my  way  from  the  tramcar  down  to  that  out-of-the- 
way  little  street!  Men  never  appreciate  the  risks 
women  run  for  them.  But  to  leave  my  letters  lying 
about — I cannot  forgive  that.  When  I told  Fay 
she  said,  ‘What  can  you  expect?  I warned  you 
against  flirting  with  boys.’  I never  did  before — 
never. 

“Paris  is  now  just  as  it  was  when  you  used  to  sit 
on  the  balcony  and  I read  you  Browning.  You 
never  liked  his  poetry,  and  I cannot  understand  why. 
I have  found  a new  poem  which  I am  sure  would 
convert  you;  you  should  be  here.  There  are  lilacs 
in  the  room  and  the  Mont  Valerien  is  beautiful  upon 
a great  lemon  sky,  and  the  long  avenue  is  merging 
into  violet  vapour. 

“We  have  already  begun  to  think  of  where  we 

shall  go  to  this  year.  Last  year  we  went  to  P , 

an  enchanting  place,  quite  rustic,  but  within  easy 
distance  of  a casino.  I had  vowed  not  to  dance,  for 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  115 


I had  been  out  every  night  during  the  season,  but 
the  temptation  proved  irresistible,  and  I gave  way. 
There  were  two  young  men  here,  one  the  Count  of 

B , the  other  the  Marquis  of  G , one  of  the 

best  families  in  France,  a distant  cousin  of  my  hus- 
band. He  has  written  a book  which  every  one  says 
is  one  of  the  most  amusing  things  that  has  appeared 
for  years,  cest  surtout  tres  Parisien.  He  paid  me 
great  attentions,  and  made  my  husband  wildly  jeal- 
ous. I used  to  go  out  and  sit  with  him  amid  the  rocks, 
and  it  was  perhaps  very  lucky  for  me  that  he  went 
away.  We  may  return  there  this  year;  if  so,  I wish 
you  would  come  and  spend  a month;  there  is  an 
excellent  hotel  where  you  would  be  very  comfortable. 
We  have  decided  nothing  as  yet.  The  Duchesse 

de is  giving  a costume  ball ; they  say  it  is  going 

to  be  a most  wonderful  affair.  I don’t  know  what 
money  is  not  going  to  be  spent  upon  the  cotillion. 
I have  just  got  home  a fascinating  toilette.  I am 
going  as  a Pierrotte ; you  know,  a short  skirt  and  a 
little  cap.  The  Marquise  gave  a ball  some  few  days 

ago.  I danced  the  cotillion  with  L , who,  as  you 

know,  dances  divinely ; il  ma  fait  la  cour,  but  it  is  of 
course  no  use,  you  know  that. 

“The  other  night  we  went  to  see  the  Maitre-Forges , 
a fascinating  play,  and  I am  reading  the  book ; I don’t 
know  which  I like  the  best.  I think  the  play,  but 
the  book  is  very  good  too.  Now  that  is  what  I call 
a novel ; and  I am  a judge,  for  I have  read  all  novels. 
But  I must  not  talk  literature,  or  you  will  say  some- 
thing stupid.  I wish  you  would  not  make  foolish 


110  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


remarks  about  men  that  tout-Paris  considers  the  clev- 
erest. It  does  not  matter  so  much  with  me,  I know 
you,  but  then  people  laugh  at  you  behind  your  back, 
and  that  is  not  nice  for  me.  The  marquise  was  here 
the  other  day,  and  she  said  she  almost  wished  you 
would  not  come  on  her  ‘days/  so  extraordinary  were 
the  remarks  you  made.  And  by  the  way,  the  mar- 
quise has  written  a book.  I have  not  seen  it,  but  I 
hear  that  it  is  really  too  decollete . She  is  une  femme 
d’ esprit,  but  the  way  she  affiche’s  herself  is  too  much 
for  any  one.  She  never  goes  anywhere  now  without 
le  petit  D . It  is  a great  pity. 

“And  now,  my  dear  friend,  write  me  a nice  letter, 
and  tell  me  when  you  are  coming  back  to  Paris.  I 
am  sure  you  cannot  amuse  yourself  in  that  hateful 
London  ; the  nicest  thing  about  you  was  that  you  were 
really  tres  Parisien.  Come  back  and  take  a nice 
apartment  on  the  Champs  Ely  sees.  You  might  come 
back  for  the  Duchesse’s  ball.  I will  get  an  invita- 
tion for  you,  and  will  keep  the  cotillion  for  you. 
The  idea  of  running  away  as  you  did,  and  never  tell- 
ing any  one  where  you  were  going  to.  I always  said 
you  were  a little  cracked.  And  letting  all  your  things 
be  sold ! If  you  had  only  told  me ! I should  like  so 
much  to  have  had  that  Turkish  lamp.  Yours ” 

How  like  her  that  letter  is, — egotistical,  vain,  fooh 
ish ; no,  not  foolish — narrow,  limited,  but  not  foolish ; 
worldly,  oh,  how  worldly!  and  yet  not  repulsively 
so,  for  there  always  was  in  her  a certain  intensity 
of  feeling  that  saved  her  from  the  commonplace,  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  117 

gave  her  an  inexpressible  charm.  Yes,  she  is  a 
woman  who  can  feel,  and  she  has  lived  her  life  and 
felt  it  very  acutely,  very  sincerely — sincerely?  . . . 
like  a moth  caught  in  a gauze  curtain!  Well,  would 
that  preclude  sincerity?  Sincerity  seems  to  convey 
an  idea  of  depth,  and  she  was  not  very  deep,  that 
is  quite  certain.  I never  could  understand  her; — 
a little  brain  that  span  rapidly  and  hummed  a pretty 
humming  tune.  But  no,  there  was  something  more 
in  her  than  that.  She  pften  said  things  that  I 
thought  clever,  things  that  I did  not  forget,  things 
that  I should  like  to  put  into  books.  But  it  was  not 
brain  power;  it  was  only  intensity  of  feeling — nerv- 
ous feeling.  I don’t  know  . . . perhaps.  . . . She 
has  lived  her  life  . . . yes,  within  certain  limits  she 
has  lived  her  life.  None  of  us  do  more  than  that. 
True.  I remember  the  first  time  I saw  her.  Sharp, 
little,  and  merry — a changeable  little  sprite.  I 
thought  she  had  ugly  hands;  so  she  has,  and  yet  I 
forgot  all  about  her  hands  before  I had  known  her 
a month.  It  is  now  seven  years  ago.  How  time 
passes!  I was  very  young  then.  What  battles  we 
have  had,  what  quarrels!  Still  we  had  good  times 
together.  She  never  lost  sight  of  me,  but  no  intru- 
sion ; far  too  clever  for  that.  I never  got  the  better 
of  her  but  once  . . . once  I did,  enfin!  She  soon 
made  up  for  lost  ground.  I wonder  what  the  charm 
was.  I did  not  think  her  pretty,  I did  not  think 
her  clever;  that  I know.  ...  I never  knew  if  she 
cared  for  me,  never.  There  were  moments  when  . . . 
Curious,  febrile,  subtle  little  creature,  oh,  infinitely 


118  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


subtle,  subtle  in  everything,  in  her  sensations  subtle; 
I suppose  that  was  her  charm,  subtleness.  I never 
knew  if  she  cared  for  me,  I never  knew  if  she  hated 
her  husband, — one  never  knew  her, — I never  knew 
how  she  would  receive  me.  The  last  time  I saw 
her  . . . that  stupid  American  would  take  her  down- 
stairs, no  getting  rid  of  him,  and  I was  hiding  be- 
hind one  of  the  pillars  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  my 
hand  on  the  cab  door.  However,  she  could  not  blame 
me  that  time — and  all  the  stories  she  used  to  invent 
of  my  indiscretions;  I believe  she  used  to  get  them 
up  for  the  sake  of  the  excitement.  She  was  awfully 
silly  in  some  ways,  once  you  got  her  into  a certain 
line ; that  marriage,  that  title,  and  she  used  to  think 
of  it  night  and  day.  I shall  never  forget  when  she 
went  into  mourning  for  the  Count  de  Chambord. 
And  her  tastes,  oh,  how  bourgeois  they  were ! That 
salon ; the  flagrantly  modern  clock,  brass  work,  eight 
hundred  francs  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  the 
cabinets,  brass  work,  the  rich  brown  carpet,  and  the 
furniture  set  all  round  the  room  geometrically,  the 
great  gilt  mirror,  the  ancestral  portrait,  the  arms 
and  crest  everywhere,  and  the  stuffy  bourgeois  sense 
of  comfort;  a little  grotesque  no  doubt; — the  me- 
chanical admiration  for  all  that  is  about  her,  for  the 
general  atmosphere,  the  Figaro,  that  is  to  say  Albert 
Wolf,  VTiomme  le  plus  spirituel  de  Paris,  c est-d-dire, 
dans  le  monde,  the  success  of  Georges  Ohnet  and  the 
talent  of  Gustave  Dore.  But  with  all  this  vulgarity 
of  taste  certain  appreciations,  certain  ebullitions  of 
sentiment,  within  the  radius  of  sentiment  certain  ele* 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  11& 


vations  and  depravities, — depravities  in  the  legiti- 
mate sense  of  the  word,  that  is  to  say,  a revolt  against 
the  commonplace.  . . . 

Ha,  ha,  ha ! how  I have  been  dreaming.  I wish  I 
had  not  been  awoke  from  my  reverie,  it  was  pleasant. 

The  letter  just  read  indicates,  if  it  does  not  clearly 
tell,  the  changes  that  have  taken  place  in  my  life ; and 
it  is  only  necessary  to  say  that  one  morning,  a few 
months  ago,  when  my  servant  brought  me  some 
summer  honey  and  a glass  of  milk  to  my  bedside,  she 
handed  me  an  unpleasant  letter.  My  agent’s  hand- 
writing, even  when  I knew  the  envelope  contained 
a cheque,  has  never  quite  failed  to  produce  a sen- 
sation of  repugnance  in  me; — so  hateful  is  any 
sort  of  account,  that  I avoid  as  much  as  possible 
even  knowing  how  I stand  at  my  banker’s.  There- 
fore the  odour  of  honey  and  milk,  so  evocative  of 
fresh  flowers  and  fields,  was  spoilt  that  morning  for 
me;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I slipped  on  that 
beautiful  Japanese  dressing-gown,  which  I shall 
never  see  again,  and  read  the  odious  epistle. 

That  some  wretched  farmers  and  miners  should 
refuse  to  starve,  that  I may  not  be  deprived  of  my 
demi-tasse  at  Tortoni’s;  that  I may  not  be  forced 
to  leave  this  beautiful  retreat,  my  cat  and  my  python 
— monstrous.  And  these  wretched  creatures  will  find 
moral  support  in  England ; they  will  find  pity ! 

Pity,  that  most  vile  of  all  vile  virtues,  has  never 
been  known  to  me.  The  great  pagan  world  I love 
knew  it  not.  Now  the  world  proposes  to  interrupt 


120  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


the  terrible  austere  laws  of  nature  which  ordain 
that  the  weak  shall  be  trampled  upon,  shall  be  ground 
into  death  and  dust,  that  the  strong  shall  be  really 
strong, — that  the  strong  shall  be  glorious,  sublime. 
A little  bourgeois  comfort,  a little  bourgeois  sense 
of  right,  cry  the  modems. 

Hither  the  world  has  been  drifting  since  the  com- 
ing of  the  pale  socialist  of  Galilee;  and  this  is  why 
I hate  Him,  and  deny  His  divinity.  His  divinity 
is  falling,  it  is  evanescent  in  sight  of  the  goal  He 
dreamed ; again  He  is  denied  by  His  disciples. 
Poor  fallen  God!  I,  who  hold  nought  else  pitiful, 
pity  Thee,  Thy  bleeding  face  and  hands  and  feet, 
Thy  hanging  body;  Thou  at  least  art  picturesque, 
and  in  a way  beautiful  in  the  midst  of  the  sombre 
mediocrity,  towards  which  Thou  hast  drifted  for 
two  thousand  years,  a flag;  and  in  which  Thou  shalt 
find  Thy  doom  as  I mine,  I,  who  will  not  adore 
Thee  and  cannot  curse  Thee  now.  For  verily  Thy 
life  and  Thy  fate  has  been  greater,  stranger  and 
more  Divine  than  any  man’s  has  been.  The  chosen 
people,  the  garden,  the  betrayal,  the  crucifixion,  and 
the  beautiful  story,  not  of  Mary,  but  of  Magdalen. 
The  God  descending  to  the  harlot!  Even  the  great 
pagan  world  of  marble  and  pomp  and  lust  and 
cruelty,  that  my  soul  goes  out  to  and  hails  as  the 
grandest,  has  not  so  sublime  a contrast  to  show  us  as 
this. 

Come  to  me,  ye  who  are  weak.  The  Word  went 
forth,  the  terrible  disastrous  Word,  and  before  it 
fell  the  ancient  gods,  and  the  vices  that  they  repre- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  121 


sent,  and  which  I revere,  are  outcast  now  in  the 
world  of  men;  the  Word  went  forth,  and  the  world 
interpreted  the  Word,  blindly,  ignorantly,  savagely, 
for  two  thousand  years,  but  nevertheless  nearing 
every  day  the  end — the  end  that  Thou  in  Thy  divine 
intelligence  foresaw,  that  finds  its  voice  to-day 
(enormous  though  the  antithesis  may  be,  I will  say 
it)  in  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette . What  fate  has  been 
like  Thine  ? Betrayed  by  J udas  in  the  garden,  denied 
by  Peter  before  the  cock  crew,  crucified  between 
thieves,  and  mourned  for  by  a harlot,  and  then  sent 
bound  and  bare,  nothing  changed,  nothing  altered,  in 
Thy  ignominious  plight,  forthward  in  the  world’s 
van  the  glory  and  symbol  of  a man’s  new  idea — Pity. 
Thy  day  is  closing  in,  but  the  heavens  are  now  wider 
aflame  with  Thy  light  than  ever  before — Thy  light, 
which  I,  a pagan,  standing  on  the  last  verge  of  the 
old  world,  declare  to  be  darkness,  the  coming  night  of 
pity  and  justice  which  is  imminent,  which  is  the 
twentieth  century.  The  bearers  have  relinquished 
Thy  cross,  they  leave  Thee  in  the  hour  of  Thy  uni- 
versal triumph,  Thy  crown  of  thorns  is  falling,  Thy 
face  is  buffeted  with  blows,  and  not  even  a reed  is 
placed  in  Thy  hand  for  sceptre;  only  I and  mine 
are  by  Thee,  we  who  shall  perish  with  Thee,  in  the 
ruin  Thou  hast  created. 

Injustice  we  worship ; all  that  lifts  us  out  of  the 
miseries  of  life  is  the  sublime  fruit  of  injustice. 
Every  immortal  deed  was  an  act  of  fearful  injustice  ; 
the  world  of  grandeur,  of  triumph,  of  courage,  of 
lofty  aspiration,  was  built  up  on  injustice.  Man 


122  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


would  not  be  man  but  for  injustice.  Hail,  there- 
fore, to  the  thrice  glorious  virtue  injustice!  What 
care  I that  some  millions  of  wretched  Israelites  died 
under  Pharaoh’s  lash  or  Egypt’s  sun?  It  was  well 
that  they  died  that  I might  have  the  pyramids  to 
look  on,  or  to  fill  a musing  hour  with  wonderment. 
Is  there  one  amongst  us  who  would  exchange  them 
for  the  lives  of  the  ignominious  slaves  that  died? 
What  care  I that  the  virtue  of  some  sixteen-year-old 
maiden  was  the  price  paid  for  Ingres’  La  Source ? 
That  the  model  died  of  drink  and  disease  in  the 
hospital,  is  nothing  when  compared  with  the  essen- 
tial that  I should  have  La  Source , that  exquisite 
dream  of  innocence,  to  think  of  till  my  soul  is  sick 
with  delight  of  the  painter’s  holy  vision.  Nay  more, 
the  knowledge  that  a wrong  was  done — that  millions 
of  Israelites  died  in  torments,  that  a girl,  or  a 
thousand  girls,  died  in  the  hospital  for  that  one 
virginal  thing,  is  an  added  pleasure  which  I could 
not  afford  to  spare.  Oh,  for  the  silence  of  marble 
courts,  for  the  shadow  of  great  pillars,  for  gold,  for 
reticulated  canopies  of  lilies;  to  see  the  great  glad- 
iators pass,  to  hear  them  cry  the  famous  “Ave 
Caesar,”  to  hold  the  thumb  down,  to  see  the  blood 
flow,  to  fill  the  languid  hours  with  the  agonies  of 
poisoned  slaves ! Oh,  for  excess,  for  crime ! I would 
give  many  lives  to  save  one  sonnet  by  Baudelaire; 
for  the  hymn,  “A  la  tres-chere , a la  tres-belle,  qui 
remplit  mon  coeur  de  clarte”  let  the  first-born  in 
every  house  in  Europe  be  slain ; and  in  all  sincerity 
I profess  my  readiness  to  decapitate  all  the  Japa- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  123 


nese  in  Japan  and  elsewhere,  to  save  from  destruction 
one  drawing  by  Hokee.  Again  I say  that  all  we 
deem  sublime  in  the  world’s  history  are  acts  of  in- 
justice; and  it  is  certain  that  if  mankind  does  not 
relinquish  at  once,  and  for  ever,  its  vain,  mad,  and 
fatal  dream  of  justice,  the  world  will  lapse  into 
barbarism.  England  was  great  and  glorious,  because 
England  was  unjust,  and  England’s  greatest  son  was 
the  personification  of  injustice — Cromwell. 

But  the  old  world  of  heroes  is  over  now.  The 
skies  above  us  are  dark  with  sentimentalism,  the 
sand  beneath  us  is  shoaling  fast,  we  are  running 
with  streaming  canvas  upon  ruin;  all  ideals  have 
gone;  nothing  remains  to  us  for  worship  but  the 
Mass,  the  blind,  inchoate,  insatiate  Mass;  fog  and 
fen  land  before  us,  we  shall  founder  in  putrefying 
mud,  creatures  of  the  ooze  and  rushes  about  us — 
we,  the  great  ship  that  has  floated  up  from  the 
antique  world.  Oh,  for  the  antique  world,  its  plain 
passion,  its  plain  joys  in  the  sea,  where  the  Triton 
blew  a plaintive  blast,  and  the  forest  where  - the 
whiteness  of  the  nymph  was  seen  escaping!  We 
are  weary  of  pity,  we  are  weary  of  being  good; 
we  are  weary  of  tears  and  effusion,  and  our  refuge — 
the  British  Museum — is  the  wide  sea  shore  and  the 
wind  of  the  ocean.  There,  there  is  real  joy  in  the 
flesh ; our  statues  are  naked,  but  we  are  ashamed,  and 
our  nakedness  is  indecency:  a fair,  frank  soul  is 
mirrored  in  those  fauns  and  nymphs ; and  how 
strangely  enigmatic  is  the  soul  of  the  antique  world, 
the  bare,  barbarous  soul  of  beauty  and  of  might! 


CHAPTER  IX 


OUT  neither  Apollo  nor  Buddha  could  help  or 
save  me.  One  in  his  exquisite  balance  of  body, 
a skylark-like  song  of  eternal  beauty,  stood  lightly 
advancing;  the  other  sat  sombrouslv  contemplating, 
calm  as  a beautiful  evening.  I looked  for  sorrow  in 
the  eyes  of  the  pastel — the  beautiful  pastel  that 
seemed  to  fill  with  a real  presence  the  rich  autumnal 
leaves  where  the  jays  darted  and  screamed.  The 
twisted  columns  of  the  bed  rose,  burdened  with  great 
weight  of  fringes  and  curtains,  the  python  devoured 
a guinea  pig,  the  last  I gave  him;  the  great  white 
cat  came  to  me.  I said  all  this  must  go,  must  hence- 
forth be  to  me  an  abandoned  dream,  a something, 
not  more  real  than  a summer  meditation.  So  be  it, 
and,  as  was  characteristic  of  me,  I broke  with  Paris 
suddenly,  without  warning  anyone.  I knew  in  my 
heart  of  hearts  that  I should  never  return,  but  no 
word  was  spoken,  and  I continued  a pleasant  de- 
lusion with  myself ; I told  my  concierge  that  I would 
return  in  a month,  and  I left  all  to  be  sold,  brutally 
sold  by  auction,  as  the  letter  I read  in  the  last 
chapter  charmingly  and  touchingly  describes. 

Not  even  to  Marshall  did  I confide  my  foreboding 
that  Paris  would  pass  out  of  my  life,  that  it  would 
henceforth  be  with  me  a beautiful  memory,  but 
never  more  a practical  delight.  He  and  I were  no 

124 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  125 


longer  living  together ; we  had  parted  a second  time, 
but  this  time  without  bitterness  of  any  kind ; he  had 
learnt  to  feel  that  I wanted  to  live  alone,  and  had 
moved  away  into  the  Latin  quarter,  whither  I made 
occasional  expeditions.  I accompanied  him  once  to 
the  old  haunts,  but  various  terms  of  penal  servitude 
had  scattered  our  friends,  and  I could  not  interest 
myself  in  the  new.  Nor  did  Marshall  himself  inter- 
est me  as  he  had  once  done.  To  my  eager  taste,  he 
had  grown  just  a little  trite.  My  affection  for  him 
was  as  deep  and  sincere  as  ever;  wrere  I to  meet 
him  now  I would  grasp  his  hand  and  hail  him  with 
firm,  loyal  friendship;  but  I had  made  friends  in 
the  Nouvelle  Athenes  who  interested  me  passionately, 
and  my  thoughts  were  absorbed  by  and  set  on  new 
ideals,  which  Marshall  had  failed  to  find  sympathy 
for,  or  even  to  understand.  I had  introduced  him 
to  Degas  and  Manet,  but  he  had  spoken  of  Jules 
Lefevre  and  Bouguereau,  and  generally  shown  him- 
self incapable  of  any  higher  education;  he  could 
not  enter  where  I had  entered,  and  this  was  aliena- 
tion. We  could  no  longer  even  talk  of  the  same  peo- 
ple ; when  I spoke  of  a certain  marquise , he  answered 
with  an  indifferent  “Do  you  really  think  so  ?”  and 
proceeded  to  drag  me  away  from  my  glitter  of  satin 
to  the  dinginess  of  print  dresses.  It  was  more  than 
alienation,  it  was  almost  separation ; but  he  was  still 
my  friend,  he  was  the  man,  and  he  always  will  be, 
to  whom  my  youth,  with  all  its  aspirations,  was 
most  closely  united.  So  I turned  to  say  good-bye 
to  him  and  to  my  past  life.  Rap — rap — rap  I 


126  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


“Who’s  there?” 

“I— Dayne.” 

“I’ve  got  a model.” 

“Never  mind  your  model.  Open  the  door.  How 
are  you  ? what  are  you  painting  ?” 

“This ; what  do  you  think  of  it  ?” 

“It  is  prettily  composed.  I think  it  will  come 
out  all  right.  I am  going  to  England*,  come  to  say 
good-bye.” 

“Going  to  England ! What  will  you  do  in  Eng- 
land ?” 

“I  have  to  go  about  money  matters;  very  tire- 
some. I had  really  begun  to  forget  there  was  such 
a place.” 

“But  you  are  not  going  to  stay  there  ?” 

“Oh,  no!” 

“You  will  be  just  in  time  to  see  the  Academy.” 

The  conversation  turned  on  art,  and  we  sestheti- 
cised  for  an  hour.  At  last  Marshall  said,  “I  am 
really  sorry,  old  chap,  but  I must  send  you  away; 
there’s  that  model.” 

The  girl  sat  waiting,  her  pale  hair  hanging  down 
her  back,  a very  picture  of  discontent. 

“Send  her  away.” 

“I  asked  her  to  come  out  to  dinner.” 

“D — n her  . . . Well,  never  mind,  I must  spend 
this  last  evening  with  you;  you  shall  both  dine 
with  me.  Je  quitte  Paris  demain  matin,  peut-etre 
pour  longtemps ; je  voudrais  passer  ma  dernier e 
soiree  avec  mon  ami;  alors  si  vous  voulez  bien  me 
permettre,  mademoiselle,  je  vous  invite  tous  les  deux 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  127 


a diner ; nous  passerons  la  soiree  ensemble  si  cela 
vous  est  agreable ?” 

“Je  veux  bien , monsieur” 

Poor  Marie!  Marshall  and  I were  absorbed  in 
each  other  and  art.  It  was  always  so.  We  dined 
in  a gargotte,  and  afterwards  we  went  to  a students* 
ball ; and  it  seems  like  yesterday.  I can  see  the 
moon  sailing  through  a clear  sky,  and  on  the  pave- 
ment’s edge  Marshall’s  beautiful,  slim,  manly  figure, 
and  Marie’s  exquisite  gracefulness.  She  was  Le- 
fevre’s  Chloe;  so  every  one  sees  her  now.  Her  end 
was  a tragic  one.  She  invited  her  friends  to  dinner, 
and  with  the  few  pence  that  remained  she  bought 
some  boxes  of  matches,  boiled  them,  and  drank  the 
water.  No  one  knew  why;  some  said  it  was  love. 

I went  to  London  in  an  exuberant  necktie,  a tiny 
hat ; I wore  large  trousers  and  a Capoul  beard ; and 
I looked,  I believe,  as  unlike  an  Englishman  as  a 
drawing  by  Grevin.  In  the  smoking-room  of  Mor- 
ley’s  Hotel  I met  my  agent,  an  immense  nose,  and 
a wisp  of  hair  drawn  over  a bald  skull.  He  ex- 
plained, after  some  hesitation,  that  I owed  him  a 
few  thousands,  and  that  the  accounts  were  in  his 
portmanteau.  I suggested  taking  them  to  a solicitor 
to  have  them  examined.  The  solicitor  advised  me 
strongly  to  contest  them.  I did  not  take  the  ad- 
vice, but  raised  some  money  instead,  and  so  the 
matter  ended  so  far  as  the  immediate  future  was 
concerned.  The  years  the  most  impressionable,  from 
twenty  to  thirty,  when  the  senses  and  the  mind  are 
the  widest  awake,  I,  the  most  impressionable  of 


128  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


human  beings,  had  spent  in  France,  not  among  Eng- 
lish residents,  but  among  that  which  is  the  quintes- 
sence of  the  nation;  I,  not  an  indifferent  spectator, 
but  an  enthusiast,  striving  heart  and  soul  to  identify 
himself  with  his  environment,  to  shake  himself  free 
from  race  and  language  and  to  recreate  himself  as  it 
were  in  the  womb  of  a new  nationality,  assuming  its 
ideals,  its  morals,  and  its  modes  of  thought,  and  I 
had  succeeded  strangely  well,  and  when  I returned 
home  England  was  a neAV  country  to  me ; I had,  as  it 
were,  forgotten  everything.  Every  aspect  of  street 
and  suburban  garden  was  new  to  me ; of  the  manner 
of  life  of  Londoners  I knew  nothing.  This  sounds 
incredible,  but  it  is  so;  I saw,  but  I could  realise 
nothing.  I went  into  a drawing-room,  but  everything 
seemed  far  away — a dream,  a presentment,  nothing 
more;  I was  in  touch  with  nothing;  of  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  those  I met  I could  understand  noth- 
ing, nor  could  I sympathise  with  them:  an  English- 
man was  at  that  time  as  much  out  of  my  mental 
reach  as  an  Esquimaux  would  be  now.  Women  were 
nearer  to  me  than  men,  and  I will  take  this  oppor- 
tunity to  note  my  observation,  for  I am  not  aware 
that  any  one  else  has  observed  that  the  difference 
between  the  two  races  is  found  in  the  men,  not  in  the 
women.  French  and  English  women  are  psychologi- 
cally very  similar;  the  standpoint  from  which  they 
see  life  is  the  same,  the  same  thoughts  interest  and 
amuse  them;  but  the  attitude  of  a Frenchman’s  mind 
is  absolutely  opposed  to  that  of  an  Englishman ; they 
stand  on  either  side  of  a vast  abyss,  two  animals  dif- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  129 


f erent  in  colour,  form,  and  temperament ; — two  ideas 
destined  to  remain  irrevocably  separate  and  distinct. 

I have  beard  of  writing  and  speaking  two  lan- 
guages equally  well:  this  was  impossible  to  me,  and 
I am  convinced  that  if  I had  remained  two  more 
years  in  France  I should  never  have  been  able  to 
identify  my  thoughts  with  the  language  I am  now 
writing  in,  and  I should  have  written  it  as  an  alien. 
As  it  was  I only  just  escaped  this  detestable  fate. 
And  it  was  in  the  last  two  years,  when  I began  to 
write  French  verse  and  occasional  chroniques  in  the 
papers,  that  the  great  damage  was  done.  I remem- 
ber very  well  indeed  one  day,  while  arranging  an 
act  of  a play  I was  writing  with  a friend,  finding 
suddenly  to  my  surprise  that  I could  think  more 
easily  and  rapidly  in  French  than  in  English;  but 
with  all  this  I did  not  learn  French.  I chattered, 
and  I felt  intensely  at  home  in  it;  yes,  I could 
write  a sonnet  or  a ballade  almost  without  a slip,  but 
my  prose  required  a good  deal  of  alteration,  for  a 
greater  command  of  language  is  required  to  write  in 
prose  than  in  verse.  I found  this  in  French  and 
also  in  English.  For  when  I returned  from  Paris, 
my  English  terribly  corrupt  with  French  ideas  and 
forms  of  thought,  I could  write  acceptable  English 
verse,  but  even  ordinary  newspaper  prose  was  be- 
yond my  reach,  and  an  attempt  I made  to  write  a 
novel  drifted  into  a miserable  failure;  but  the  fol- 
lowing poems  opened  to  me  the  doors  of  a first-class 
London  newspaper,  and  I was  at  once  entrusted  with 
some  important  critical  work: 


130  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


THE  SWEETNESS  OF  THE  PAST 

As  sailors  watch  from  their  prison 
For  the  faint  grey  line  of  the  coasts, 

I look  to  the  past  re-arisen, 

And  joys  come  over  in  hosts 
Like  the  white  sea  birds  from  their  roosts. 

I love  not  the  indelicate  present, 

The  future’s  unknown  to  our  quest, 
To-day  is  the  life  of  the  peasant, 

But  the  past  is  a haven  of  rest — 

The  things  of  the  past  are  the  best. 

The  rose  of  the  past  is  better 
Than  the  rose  we  ravish  to-day, 

*Tis  holier,  purer,  and  fitter 
To  place  on  the  shrine  where  we  pray 
For  the  secret  thoughts  we  obey. 

There  are  there  no  deceptions  or  change^ 
And  there  all  is  lovely  and  still; 

No  grief  nor  fate  that  estranges, 

Nor  hope  that  no  life  can  fulfil, 

But  ethereal  shelter  from  ill. 

The  coarser  delights  of  the  hour 
Tempt,  and  debauch,  and  deprave, 

And  we  joy  in  a poisonous  flower, 
Knowing  that  nothing  can  save 
Our  flesh  from  the  fate  of  the  grave. 

But  sooner  or  later  returning 
In  grief  to  the  well-loved  nest, 

Our  souls  filled  with  infinite  yearning. 

We  cry,  in  the  past  there  is  rest, 

There  is  peace,  its  joys  are  the  best. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  131 

NOSTALGIA 


Fair  were  the  dreamful  days  of  old, 

When  in  the  summer’s  sleepy  shade, 

Beneath  the  beeches  on  the  wold, 

The  shepherds  lay  and  gently  played 
Music  to  maidens,  who,  afraid, 

Drew  all  together  rapturously, 

Their  white  soft  hands  like  white  leaves  laid, 

In  the  old  dear  days  of  Arcady. 

Men  were  not  then  as  they  are  now 
Haunted  and  terrified  by  creeds, 

They  sought  not  then,  nor  cared  to  know 
The  end  that  as  a magnet  leads, 

Nor  told  with  austere  fingers  beads, 

Nor  reasoned  with  their  grief  and  glee, 

But  rioted  in  pleasant  meads 
In  the  old  dear  days  of  Arcady. 

The  future  may  be  wrong  or  right, 

The  present  is  distinctly  wrong, 

For  life  and  love  have  lost  delight, 

And  bitter  even  is  our  song; 

And  year  by  year  grey  doubt  grows  strong. 

And  death  is  all  that  seems  to  dree. 

Wherefore  with  weary  hearts  we  long 
For  the  old  dear  days  of  Arcady. 

ENVOI 

Glories  and  triumphs  ne’er  shall  cease, 

But  men  may  sound  the  heavens  and  sea, 

One  thing  is  lost  for  aye — the  peace 
Of  the  old  dear  days  of  Arcady. 

And  so  it  was  that  I came  to  settle  down  in  a 
Strand  lodging-house,  determined  to  devote  myself 


132  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


to  literature,  and  to  accept  the  hardships  of  a literary 
life.  I had  been  playing  long  enough,  and  now  I was 
resolved  to  see  what  I could  do  in  the  world  of  work. 
I was  anxious  for  proof,  peremptory  proof,  of  my 
capacity  or  incapacity.  A book!  No.  I required 
an  immediate  answer,  and  journalism  alone  could 
give  me  that.  So  I reasoned  in  the  Strand  lodging- 
house.  And  what  led  me  to  that  house?  Chance, 
or  a friend’s  recommendation?  I forget.  It  was 
uncomfortable,  hideous,  and  not  very  clean:  but 
curious,  as  all  things  are  curious  when  examined 
closely.  Let  me  tell  you  about  my  rooms.  The  sit- 
ting-room was  a good  deal  longer  than  it  was  wide; 
it  was  panelled  with  deal,  and  the  deal  was  painted 
a light  brown ; behind  it  there  was  a large  bedroom : 
the  floor  was  covered  with  a ragged  carpet,  and  a 
big  bed  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  But  next 
to  the  sitting-room  was  a small  bedroom  which  was 
let  for  ten  shillings  a week;  and  the  partition  wall 
was  so  thin  that  I could  hear  every  movement  the 
occupant  made.  This  proximity  was  intolerable,  and 
eventually  I decided  on  adding  ten  shillings  to  my 
rent,  and  I became  the  possessor  of  the  entire  flat. 
In  the  room  above  me  lived  a pretty  young  woman, 
an  actress  at  the  Savoy  Theatre.  She  had  a piano, 
and  she  used  to  play  and  sing  in  the  mornings, 
and  in  the  afternoon,  friends — girls  from  the  theatre 
— used  to  come  and  see  her;  and  Emma,  the  maid- 
of -all-work,  used  to  take  them  up  their  tea ; and,  oh ! 

the  chattering  and  the  laughter.  Poor  Miss  L ; 

she  had  only  two  pounds  a week  to  live  on,  but  she 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  133 


was  always  in  high  spirits  except  when  she  could  not 
pay  the  hire  of  her  piano;  and  I am  sure  that  she 
now  looks  hack  with  pleasure  and  thinks  of  those 
days  as  very  happy  ones. 

She  was  a tall  girl,  a thin  figure,  and  she  had 
large  brown  eyes ; she  liked  young  men,  and  she  hoped 
that  Mr.  Gilbert  would  give  her  a line  or  two  in 
his  next  opera.  Often  have  I come  out  on  the  land- 
ing to  meet  her;  we  used  to  sit  on  those  stairs  talk- 
ing, long  after  midnight,  of  what? — of  our  land- 
lady, of  the  theatre,  of  the  most  suitable  ways  of 
enjoying  ourselves  in  life.  One  night  she  told  ms 
she  was  married ; it  was  a solemn  moment.  I asked 
in  a sympathetic  voice  why  she  was  not  living  with 
her  husband.  She  told  me,  but  the  reason  of  the 
separation  I have  forgotten  in  the  many  similar  rea- 
sons for  separations  and  partings  which  have  since 
been  confided  to  me.  The  landlady  bitterly  resented 

our  intimacy,  and  I believe  Miss  L was  charged 

indirectly  for  her  conversations  with  me  in  the  bill. 
On  the  first  floor  there  was  a large  sitting-room -and 
bedroom,  solitary  rooms  that  were  nearly  always  un- 
let.  The  landlady’s  parlour  was  on  the  ground  floor, 
her  bedroom  was  next  to  it,  and  further  on  was  the 
entrance  to  the  kitchen  stairs,  whence  ascended  Mrs. 

S ’s  brood  of  children,  and  Emma,  the  awful 

servant,  with  tea  things,  many  various  smells,  that  of 
ham  and  eggs  predominating. 

Emma,  I remember  you — you  are  not  to  be  for- 
gotten— up  at  five  o’clock  every  morning,  scouring, 
washing,  cooking,  dressing  those  infamous  children; 


134  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


seventeen  hours  at  least  out  of  the  twenty-four  at 
the  beck  and  call  of  landlady,  lodgers,  and  quar- 
relling children;  seventeen  hours  at  least  out  of  the 
twenty-four  drudging  in  that  horrible  kitchen,  run- 
ning up  stairs  with  coals  and  breakfasts  and  cans 
of  hot  water;  down  on  your  knees  before  a grate, 
pulling  out  the  cinders  with  those  hands — can  I call 
them  hands?  The  lodgers  sometimes  threw  you  a 
kind  word,  but  never  one  that  recognised  that  you 
were  akin  to  us,  only  the  pity  that  might  be  extended 
to  a dog.  And  I used  to  ask  you  all  sorts  of  cruel 
questions,  I was  curious  to  know  the  depth  of  ani- 
malism you  had  sunk  to,  or  rather  out  of  which  you 
had  never  been  raised.  And  you  generally  answered 
innocently  and  naively  enough.  But  sometimes  my 
words  were  too  crude,  and  they  struck  through  the 
thick  hide  into  the  quick,  into  the  human,  and  you 
winced  a little;  but  this  was  rarely,  for  you  were 
very  nearly,  oh,  very  nearly  an  animal : your  tempera- 
ment and  intelligence  was  just  that  of  a dog  that  has 
picked  up  a master,  not  a real  master,  but  a make- 
shift master  who  may  turn  it  out  at  any  moment. 
Dickens  would  sentimentalise  or  laugh  over  you ; I do 
neither.  I merely  recognise  you  as  one  of  the  facts 
of  civilisation.  You  looked — well,  to  be  candid, — 
you  looked  neither  young  nor  old;  hard  work  had 
obliterated  the  delicate  markings  of  the  years,  and 
left  you  in  round  numbers  something  over  thirty. 
Your  hair  was  reddish  brown,  and  your  face  wore 
that  plain  honest  look  that  is  so  essentially  English. 
The  rest  of  you  was  a mass  of  stuffy  clothes,  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  135 


when  you  rushed  up  stairs  I saw  something  that  did 
not  look  like  legs ; a horrible  rush  that  was  of  yours, 
a sort  of  cart-horse  like  bound.  I have  spoken 
angrily  to  you ; I have  heard  others  speak  angrily  to 
you,  but  never  did  that  sweet  face  of  yours,  for  it  was 
a sweet  face — that  sweet,  natural  goodness  that  is 
so  sublime — lose  its  expression  of  perfect  and  un- 
failing kindness.  Words  convey  little  sense  of  the 
real  horrors  of  the  reality.  Life  in  your  case  meant 
this:  to  be  bom  in  a slum,  and  to  leave  it  to  work 
seventeen  hours  a day  in  a lodging-house;  to  be  a 
Londoner,  but  to  know  only  the  slum  in  which  you 
were  born  and  the  few  shops  in  the  Strand  at  which 
the  landlady  dealt.  To  know  nothing  of  London 
meant  in  your  case  not  to  know  that  it  was  not  Eng- 
land; England  and  London!  you  could  not  distin- 
guish between  them.  Was  England  an  island  or  a 
mountain?  you  had  no  notion.  I remember  when 

you  heard  that  Miss  L was  going  to  America, 

you  asked  me,  and  the  question  was  sublime:  “Is 
she  going  to  travel  all  night  ?”  You  had  heard  peo- 
ple speak  of  travelling  all  night,  and  that  was  all 
you  knew  of  travel  or  any  place  that  was  not  the 
Strand.  I asked  you  if  you  went  to  church,  and  you 
said  “No,  it  makes  my  eyes  bad.”  I said,  “But  you 
don’t  read;  you  can’t  read.”  “No,  but  I have  to 
look  at  the  book.”  I asked  you  if  you  had  heard 
of  God;  you  hadn’t;  but  when  I pressed  you  on 
the  point  you  suspected  I was  laughing  at  you,  and 
you  would  not  answer,  and  when  I tried  you  again 
on  the  subject  I could  see  that  the  landlady  had  been 


136  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


telling  you  what  to  say.  But  you  had  not  understood, 
and  your  conscious  ignorance,  grown  conscious  within 
the  last  couple  of  days,  was  even  more  pitiful  than 
your  unconscious  ignorance  when  you  answered  that 
you  couldn’t  go  to  church  because  it  made  your  eyes 
bad.  It  is  a strange  thing  to  know  nothing;  for  in- 
stance, to  live  in  London  and  to  have  no  notion  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  nor  indeed  of  the  Queen, 
except  perhaps  that  she  is  a rich  lady;  the  police — 
yes,  you  knew  what  a policeman  was  because  you 
used  to  be  sent  to  fetch  one  to  make  an  organ-man 
or  a Christy  minstrel  move  on.  To  know  of  nothing 
but  a dark  kitchen,  grates,  eggs  and  bacon,  dirty 
children;  to  work  seventeen  hours  a day  and  to  get 
cheated  out  of  your  wages;  to  answer,  when  asked, 
why  you  did  not  get  your  wages  or  leave  if  you 

weren’t  paid,  that  you  “didn’t  know  how  Mrs.  S 

would  get  on  without  me.” 

This  woman  owed  you  forty  pounds,  I think,  so  I 
calculated  it  from  what  you  told  me ; and  yet  you  did 
not  like  to  leave  her  because  you  did  not  know  how 
she  would  get  on  without  you.  Sublime  stupidity! 
At  this  point  your  intelligence  stopped.  I remember 
you  once  spoke  of  a half-holiday;  I questioned  you, 
and  I found  your  idea  of  a half-holiday  was  to  take 
the  children  for  a walk  and  buy  them  some  sweets. 
I told  my  brother  of  this  and  he  said — Emma  out 
for  a half-holiday ! why,  you  might  as  well  give  a 
mule  a holiday.  The  phrase  was  brutal,  but  it  was 
admirably  descriptive  of  you.  Yes,  you  are  a mule, 
there  is  no  sense  in  you ; you  are  a beast  of  burden, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  137 


a drudge  too  horrible  for  anything  but  work ; and  I 
suppose,  all  things  considered,  that  the  fat  landlady 
with  a dozen  children  did  well  to  work  you  seventeen 
hours  a day,  and  cheat  you  out  of  your  miserable 
wages.  You  had  no  friends;  you  could  not  have  a 
friend  unless  it  were  some  forlorn  cat  or  dog;  but 
you  once  spoke  to  me  of  your  brother,  who  worked 
in  a potato  store,  and  I was  astonished,  and  I won- 
dered if  he  were  as  awful  as  you.  Poor  Emma ! 
I shall  never  forget  your  kind  heart  and  your  un- 
failing good  humour ; you  were  bom  beautifully  good 
as  a rose  is  born  with  perfect  perfume;  you  were 
as  unconscious  of  your  goodness  as  the  rose  of  its 
perfume.  And  you  were  taken  by  this  fat  landlady 
as  ’Arry  takes  a rose  and  sticks  it  in  his  tobacco- 
reeking  coat;  and  you  will  be  thrown  away,  shut 
out  of  doors  when  health  fails  you,  or  when,  over- 
come by  base  usage,  you  take  to  drink.  There  is  no 
hope  for  you;  even  if  you  were  treated  better  and 
paid  your  wages  there  would  be  no  hope.  That 
forty  pounds  even,  if  they  were  given  to  you,  would 
bring  you  no  good  fortune.  They  would  bring  the 
idle  loafer,  who  scorns  you  now  as  something  too 
low  for  even  his  kisses,  hanging  about  your  heels 
and  whispering  in  your  ears.  And  his  whispering 
would  drive  you  mad,  for  your  kind  heart  longs  for 
kind  words ; and  then  when  he  had  spent  your  money 
and  cast  you  off  in  despair,  the  gin  shop  and  the 
river  would  do  the  rest.  Providence  is  very  wise 
after  all,  and  your  best  destiny  is  your  present  one. 
We  cannot  add  a pain,  nor  can  we  take  away  a pain; 


138  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


we  may  alter,  but  we  cannot  subtract  nor  even  alle- 
viate. But  wbat  truisms  are  these;  who  believes  in 
philanthropy  nowadays  ? 

***** 

“Come  in.” 

“Oh,  it  is  you,  Emma!” 

“Are  you  going  to  dine  at  home  to-day,  sir?” 

“What  can  I have?” 

“Well,  yer  can  ’ave  a chop  or  a steak.” 

“Anything  else  ?” 

“Yes,  yer  can  ’ave  a steak,  or  a chop,  or ” 

“Oh  yes,  I know ; well  then,  Eli  have  a chop.  And 
now  tell  me,  Emma,  how  is  your  young  man?  I 
hear  you  have  got  one,  you  went  out  with  him  the 
other  night.” 

“Who  told  yer  that  ?” 

“Ah,  never  mind;  I hear  everything.” 

“I  know,  from  Miss  L .” 

“Well,  tell  me,  how  did  you  meet  him,  who  in- 
troduced him  ?” 

“I  met  ’im  as  I was  a-coming  from  the  public 
?ouse  with  the  beer  for  missus’  dinner.” 

“And  what  did  he  say?” 

“He  asked  me  if  I was  engaged ; I said  no.  And 
he  come  round  down  the  lane  that  evening.” 

“And  he  took  you  out  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“And  where  did  you  go  ?” 

“We  went  for  a walk  on  the  Embankment.” 

“And  when  is  he  coming  for  you  again?” 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  139 


“He  said  he  was  coming  last  evening,  but  he 
didn’t/’ 

“Why  didn’t  he?” 

“I  dunno ; I suppose  because  I haven’t  time  to  go 

out  with  him.  So  it  was  Miss  L that  told  you ; 

well,  you  do  ’ave  chats  on  the  stairs.  I suppose  you 
likes  talking  to  ’er.” 

“I  like  talking  to  everybody,  Emma;  I like  talk- 
ing to  you.” 

“Yes,  but  not  as  you  talks  to  ’er;  I ’ears  you  jes 
do  ’ave  fine  times.  She  said  this  morning  that  she 
had  not  seen  you  for  this  last  two  nights — that  you 
had  forgotten  ’er,  and  I was  to  tell  yer.” 

“Very  well,  I’ll  come  out  to-night  and  speak  to 
her.” 

“And  missus  is  so  wild  about  it,  and  she  daren’t 

say  nothing  ’cause  she  thinks  yer  might  go.” 

* * * * * 

A young  man  in  a house  full  of  women  must  be 
almost  supematurally  unpleasant  if  he  does  not  oc- 
cupy a great  deal  of  their  attention.  Certain  at  least 
it  is  that  I was  the  point  of  interest  in  that  house; 
and  I found  there  that  the  practice  of  virtue  is  not 
so  disagreeable  as  many  young  men  think  it.  The 
fat  landlady  hovered  round  my  doors,  and  I obtained 
perfectly  fresh  eggs  by  merely  keeping  her  at  her 
distance;  the  pretty  actress,  with  whom  I used  to 
sympathise  with  on  the  stairs  at  midnight,  loved  me 
better,  and  our  intimacy  was  more  strange  and  subtle, 
because  it  was  pure,  and  it  was  not  quite  unpleasant 
to  know  that  the  awful  servant  dreamed  of  me  as 


140  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


she  might  of  a star,  or  something  equally  unat- 
tainable; but  the  landlady’s  daughter,  a nasty  girl 
of  fifteen,  annoyed  me  with  her  ogling,  which  was 
a little  revolting,  hut  the  rest  was,  and  I speak  quite 
candidly,  not  wholly  unpleasant.  It  was  not  aristo- 
cratic, it  is  true,  but,  I repeat,  it  was  not  unpleas- 
ant, nor  do  I believe  that  any  young  man,  however 
refined,  would  have  found  it  unpleasant. 

But  if  I was  offered  a choice  between  a chop  and 
steak  in  the  evening,  in  the  morning  I had  to  decide 
between  eggs  and  bacon  and  bacon  and  eggs.  A 
knocking  at  the  door,  “Nine  o’clock,  sir;  ’ot  water 
sir;  what  will  you  have  for  breakfast?”  “What  can 
I have?”  “Anything  you  like,  sir.  You  can  have 

bacon  and  eggs,  or ” “Anything  else  ?” — Pause. 

— “Well,  sir,  you  can  have  eggs  and  bacon,  or ” 

“Well,  I’ll  have  eggs  and  bacon.” 

The  streets  seemed  to  me  like  rat  holes,  dark  and 
wandering  as  chance  directed,  with  just  an  occasional 
rift  of  sky,  seen  as  if  through  an  occasional  crevice, 
so  different  from  the  boulevards  widening  out  into 
bright  space  with  fountains  and  clouds  of  green  fo- 
liage. The  modes  of  life  were  so  essentially  opposed. 
I am  thinking  now  of  intellectual  rather  than  phys- 
ical comforts.  I could  put  up  with  even  lodging- 
house  food,  but  I found  it  difficult  to  forego  the  glitter 
and  artistic  enthusiasm  of  the  cafe.  The  tavern,  I 
had  heard  of  the  tavern. 

Some  seventy  years  ago  the  Club  superseded  the 
Tavern,  and  since  then  all  literary  intercourse  has 
ceased  in  London.  Literary  clubs  have  been  founded, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A ‘YOUNG  MAN  141 


and  their  leather  arm-chairs  have  begotten  Mr.  Gosse ; 
but  the  tavern  gave  the  world  Villon  and  Marlowe. 
Nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at.  What  is  wanted  is 
enthusiasm  and  devil-may-careism ; and  the  very 
aspect  of  a tavern  is  a snort  of  defiance  at  the  hearth, 
the  leather  arm-chairs  are  so  many  salaams  to  it.  I 
ask,  Did  any  one  ever  see  a gay  club  room?  Can 
any  one  imagine  such  a thing?  You  can't  have  a 
club  room  without  mahogany  tables,  you  can’t  have 
mahogany  tables  without  magazines — Longman s, 
with  a serial  by  Rider  Haggard,  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  with  an  article,  “The  Rehabilitation  of  the 
Pimp  in  Modern  Society,”  by  W.  E.  Gladstone — a 
dulness  that’s  a purge  to  good  spirits,  an  aperient  to 
enthusiasm ; in  a word,  a dulness  that’s  worth  a thou- 
sand a year.  You  can’t  have  a club  without  a waiter 
in  red  plush  and  silver  salver  in  his  hand ; then  you 
can’t  bring  a lady  to  a club,  and  you  have  to  get  into 
a corner  to  talk  about  them.  Therefore  I say  a 
club  is  dull. 

As  the  hearth  and  home  grew  all-powerful  it  be- 
came impossible  for  the  husband  to  tell  his  wife  that 
he  was  going  to  the  tavern;  everyone  can  go  to  the 
tavern,  and  no  place  in  England  where  everyone  can 
go  is  considered  respectable.  This  is  the  genesis  of 
the  Club — out  of  the  Housewife  by  Respectability. 
Nowadays  every  one  is  respectable — jockeys,  betting- 
men,  actors,  and  even  actresses.  Mrs.  Kendal  takes 
her  children  to  visit  a duchess,  and  has  naughty 
chorus  girls  to  tea,  and  tells  them  of  the  joy  of  re- 
spectability. There  is  only  one  class  left  that  is  not 


142  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


respectable,  and  that  will  succumb  before  long;  how 
the  transformation  will  be  effected  I can’t  say,  but 
I know  an  editor  or  two  who  would  be  glad  of  an 
article  on  the  subject. 

Respectability! — a suburban  villa,  a piano  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  going  home  to  dinner.  Such 
things  are  no  doubt  very  excellent,  but  they  do  not 
promote  intensity  of  feeling,  fervour  of  mind;  and 
as  art  is  in  itself  an  outcry  against  the  animality 
of  human  existence,  it  would  be  well  that  the  life  of 
the  artist  should  be  a practical  protest  against  the 
so-called  decencies  of  life;  and  he  can  best  protest 
by  frequenting  a tavern  and  cutting  his  club.  In  the 
past  the  artist  has  always  been  an  outcast ; it  is  only 
latterly  he  has  become  domesticated,  and  judging  by 
results,  it  is  clear  that  if  Bohemianism  is  not  a neces- 
sity it  is  at  least  an  adjuvant.  For  if  long  locks  and 
general  dissoluteness  were  not  an  aid  and  a way  to 
pure  thought,  why  have  they  been  so  long  his  char- 
acteristics? If  lovers  were  not  necessary  for  the 
development  of  poet,  novelist,  and  actress,  why  have 
they  always  had  lovers — Sappho,  George  Eliot, 
George  Sand,  Rachel,  Sara?  Mrs.  Kendal  nurses 
children  all  day  and  strives  to  play  Rosalind  at  night. 
What  infatuation,  what  ridiculous  endeavour!  To 
realise  the  beautiful  woodland  passion  and  the  idea  of 
the  transformation,  a woman  must  have  sinned,  for 
only  through  sin  may  we  learn  the  charm  of  inno- 
cence. To  play  Rosalind  a woman  must  have  had 
more  than  one  lover,  and  if  she  has  been  made  to 
wait  in  the  rain  and  has  been  beaten  she  will  have 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  143 


done  a great  deal  to  qualify  herself  for  the  part.  The 
ecstatic  Sara  makes  no  pretence  to  virtue,  she  intro- 
duces her  son  to  an  English  duchess,  and  throws  over 
a nation  for  the  love  of  Richepein,  she  can,  therefore, 
say  as  none  other — 

“Ce  n’est  plus  qu’une  ardeur  dans  mes  veines  cachee, 
C’est  Venus  tout  enti&re  a sa  proie  attachee. 99 


Swinburne,  when  he  dodged  about  London,  a lively 
young  dog,  wrote  “Poems  and  Ballads,”  and  “Chaste- 
lard,”  since  he  has  gone  to  live  at  Putney,  he  has 
contributed  to  the  Nineteenth  Century,  and  pub- 
lished an  interesting  little  volume  entitled,  “A  Cen- 
tury of  Rondels/’  in  which  he  continues  his  plaint 
about  his  mother  the  sea. 

Respectability  is  sweeping  the  picturesque  out  of 
life;  national  costumes  are  disappearing.  The  kilt 
is  going  or  gone  in  the  highlands,  and  the  smock  in 
the  southlands,  even  the  Japanese  are  becoming 
hristian  and  respectable;  in  another  quarter  of  a 
century  silk  hats  and  pianos  will  be  found  in  every 
house  in  Jeddo.  Too  true  that  universal  uniformity 
is  the  future  of  the  world;  and  when  Mr.  Morris 
speaks  of  the  democratic  art  to  be  when  the  world  is 
socialistic,  I ask,  whence  will  the  unfortunates  draw 
their  inspiration?  To-day  our  plight  is  pitiable 
enough — the  duke,  the  jockey-boy,  and  the  artist  are 
exactly  alike;  they  are  dressed  by  the  same  tailor, 
they  dine  at  the  same  clubs,  they  swear  the  same 
oaths,  they  speak  equally  bad  English,  they  love  the 


144  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


same  women.  Such  a state  of  things  is  dreary 
enough,  but  what  unimaginable  dreariness  there  will 
be  when  there  are  neither  rich  nor  poor,  when  all 
have  been  educated,  when  self-education  has  ceased. 
A terrible  world  to  dream  of,  worse,  far  worse,  in 
darkness  and  hopelessness  than  Dante’s  lowest  circle 
of  hell.  The  spectre  of  famine,  of  the  plague,  of 
war,  etc.,  are  mild  and  gracious  symbols  compared 
with  that  menacing  figure,  Universal  Education,  with 
which  we  are  threatened,  which  has  already  eunuched 
the  genius  of  the  last  five-and-twenty  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  produced  a limitless  abortion 
in  that  of  future  time.  Education,  I tremble  before 
thy  dreaded  name.  The  cruelties  of  Nero,  of  Calig- 
ula, what  were  they  ? — a few  crunched  limbs  in  the 
amphitheatre;  but  thine,  O Education,  are  the  yearn- 
ing of  souls  sick  of  life,  of  maddening  discontent,  of 
all  the'  fearsome  and  fathomless  sufferings  of  the 
mind.  When  Goethe  said  “More  light,”  he  said  the 
wickedest  and  most  infamous  words  that  human  lips 
ever  spoke.  In  old  days,  when  a people  became  too 
highly  civilised  the  barbarians  came  down  from  the 
north  and  regenerated  that  nation  with  darkness ; but 
now  there  are  no  more  barbarians,  and  sooner  or 
later  I am  convinced  that  we  shall  have  to  end  the 
evil  by  summary  edicts — the  obstruction  no  doubt 
will  be  severe,  the  equivalents  of  Gladstone  and  Mor- 
ley  wfill  stop  at  nothing  to  defeat  the  Bill ; but  it  will 
nevertheless  be  carried  by  patriotic  Conservative  and 
Unionist  majorities,  and  it  will  be  written  in  the 
Statute  Book  that  not  more  than  one  child  in  a 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  145 


hundred  shall  be  taught  to  read,  and  no  more  than 
one  in  ten  thousand  shall  learn  the  piano. 

Such  will  be  the  end  of  Respectability,  but  the 
end  is  still  far  distant.  We  are  now  in  a period 
of  decadence  growing  steadily  more  and  more  acute. 
The  old  gods  are  falling  about  us,  there  is  little  left 
to  raise  our  hearts  and  minds  to,  and  amid  the  wreck 
and  ruin  of  things  only  a snobbery  is  left  to  us,  thank 
heaven,  deeply  graven  in  the  English  heart ; the  snob 
is  now  the  ark  that  floats  triumphant  over  the  demo- 
cratic wave;  the  faith  of  the  old  world  reposes  in 
his  breast,  and  he  shall  proclaim  it  when  the  waters 
have  subsided. 

In  the  meanwhile  Respectability,  having  destroyed 
the  Tavern,  and  created  the  Club,  continues  to  exer- 
cise a meretricious  and  enervating  influence  on  litera- 
ture. All  audacity  of  thought  and  expression  has 
been  stamped  out,  and  the  conventionalities  are  rig- 
orously respected.  It  has  been  said  a thousand  times 
that  an  art  is  only  a reflection  of  a certain  age; 
quite  so,  only  certain  ages  are  more  interesting  than 
others,  and  consequently  produce  better  art,  just  as 
certain  seasons  produce  better  crops.  We  heard  in 
the  Nouvelle  Athenes  how  the  Democratic  movement, 
in  other  words,  Respectability,  in  other  words,  Edu- 
cation, has  extinguished  the  handicrafts;  it  was  ad- 
mitted that  in  the  more  individual  arts — painting 
and  poetry — men  would  be  always  found  to  sacrifice 
their  lives  for  a picture  or  a poem : but  no  man  is, 
after  all,  so  immeasurably  superior  to  the  age  he 
lives  in  as  to  be  able  to  resist  it  wholly;  he  must  draw 


146  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


sustenance  from  some  quarter,  and  the  contemplation 
of  the  past  will  not  suffice.  Then  the  pressure  on 
him  from  without  is  as  water  upon  the  diver;  and 
sooner  or  later  he  grows  fatigued  and  comes  to  the 
surface  to  breathe;  he  is  as  a flying-fish  pursued 
by  sharks  below  and  cruel  birds  above;  and  he  neither 
dives  as  deeply  nor  flies  as  high  as  his  freer  and 
stronger  ancestry.  A daring  spirit  in  the  nineteenth 
century  would  have  been  but  a timid  nursery  soul 
indeed  in  the  sixteenth.  We  want  tumult  and  war  to 
give  us  forgetfulness,  sublime  moments  of  peace  to 
enjoy  a kiss  in;  but  we  are  expected  to  be  home  to 
dinner  at  seven,  and  to  say  and  do  nothing  that 
might  shock  the  neighbours.  Respectability  has 
wound  itself  about  society,  a sort  of  octopus,  and  no- 
where are  you  quite  free  from  one  of  its  horrible 
suckers.  The  power  of  the  villa  residence  is  supreme : 
art,  science,  politics,  religion,  it  has  transformed  to 
suit  its  requirements.  The  villa  goes  to  the  Academy, 
the  villa  goes  to  the  theatre,  and  therefore  the  art 
of  to-day  is  mildly  realistic;  not  the  great  realism 
of  idea,  but  the  puny  reality  of  materialism ; not  the 
deep  poetry  of  a Peter  de  Hogue,  but  the  meanness 
of  a Frith — not  the  winged  realism  of  Balzac,  but 
the  degrading  naturalism  of  a coloured  photograph. 

To  my  mind  there  is  no  sadder  spectacle  of  artistic 
debauchery  than  a London  theatre;  the  overfed  in- 
habitants of  the  villa  in  the  stalls  hoping  for  gross 
excitement  to  assist  them  through  their  hesitating 
digestions;  an  ignorant  mob  in  the  pit  and  gallery 
forgetting  the  miseries  of  life  in  imbecile  stories 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  147 


reeking  of  the  sentimentality  of  the  back  stairs. 
Were  other  ages  as  coarse  and  as  common  as  ours? 
It  is  difficult  to  imagine  Elizabethan  audiences  as 
not  more  intelligent  than  those  that  applaud  Mr. 
Pettit’s  plays.  Impossible  that  an  audience  that 
could  sit  out  Edward  II.  could  find  any  pleasure  in 
such  sinks  of  literary  infamies  as  In  the  Ranks  and 
Harbour  Lights . Artistic  atrophy  is  benumbing  us, 
we  are  losing  our  finer  feeling  for  beauty,  the  rose  is 
going  back  to  the  briar.  I will  not  speak  of  the  fine 
old  crusted  stories,  ever  the  same,  on  which  every 
drama  is  based,  nor  yet  of  the  musty  characters  with 
which  they  are  peopled — the  miser  in  the  old  castle 
counting  his  gold  by  night,  the  dishevelled  woman 
whom  he  keeps  for  ambiguous  reasons  confined  in  a 
cellar.  Let  all  this  be  waived.  We  must  not  quarrel 
with  the  ingredients.  The  miser  and  the  old  castle 
are  as  true,  and  not  one  jot  more  true,  than  the  mil- 
lion events  which  go  to  make  up  the  phenomena  of 
human  existence.  Not  at  these  things  considered 
separately  do  I take  umbrage,  but  at  the  miserable 
use  that  is  made  of  them,  the  vulgarity  of  the  com- 
plications evolved  from  them,  and  the  poverty  of 
beauty  in  the  dialogue. 

Not  the  thing  itself,  but  the  idea  of  the  thing 
evokes  the  idea.  Schopenhauer  was  right ; we  do  not 
want  the  thing,  but  the  idea  of  the  thing.  The 
thing  itself  is  worthless ; and  the  moral  writers  who 
embellish  it  with  pious  ornamentation  are  just  as 
reprehensible  as  Zola,  who  embellishes  it  with  erotic 
arabesques.  You  want  the  idea  drawn  out  of  ob- 


148  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


scuring  matter,  this  can  best  be  done  by  the  symbol. 
The  symbol,  or  the  thing  itself,  that  is  the  great 
artistic  question.  In  earlier  ages  it  was  the  symbol ; 
a name,  a plume,  sufficed  to  evoke  the  idea ; now  we 
evoke  nothing,  for  we  give  everything;  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  spectator  is  no  longer  called  into  play. 
In  Shakespeare’s  days  to  create  wealth  in  a theatre 
it  was  only  necessary  to  write  upon  a board,  “A 
magnificent  apartment  in  a palace.”  This  was  no 
doubt  primitive  and  not  a little  barbarous,  but  it  was 
better  by  far  than  by  dint  of  anxious  archaeology  to 
construct  the  Doge’s  palace  upon  the  stage.  By 
one  rich  pillar,  by  some  projecting  balustrade  taken 
in  conjunction  with  a moored  gondola,  we  should 
strive  to  evoke  the  soul  of  the  city  of  Veronese:  by 
the  magical  and  unequalled  selection  of  a subtle  and 
unexpected  feature  of  a thought  or  aspect  of  a land- 
scape, and  not  by  the  up-piling  of  extraneous  detail, 
are  all  great  poetic  effects  achieved. 

“By  the  tideless  dolorous  inland  sea, 

In  a land  of  sand,  of  ruin,  and  gold. 99 

And,  better  example  still, 

“Dieu  que  le  son  du  cor  est  triste  au  fond  des  bois, 9 9 

that  impeccable,  that  only  line  of  real  poetry  Alfred 
de  Vigny  ever  wrote;  and  being  a great  poet  Shake- 
speare consciously  or  unconsciously  observed  more 
faithfully  than  any  other  poet  these  principles  of 
art;  and,  as  is  characteristic  of  the  present  day, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  149 


nowhere  do  we  find  these  principles  so  grossly  vio 
lated  as  in  the  representation  of  his  plays.  I had 
painful  proof  of  this  some  few  nights  after  my  arri- 
val in  London.  I had  never  seen  Shakespeare  acted, 
and  1 went  to  the  Lyceum  and  there  I saw  that  ex- 
quisite love  song — for  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  no  more 
than  a love  song  in  dialogue — tricked  out  in  silks  and 
carpets  and  illuminated  building,  a vulgar  bawd 
suited  to  the  gross  passion  of  an  ignorant  public. 
I hated  all  that  with  the  hatred  of  a passionate  heart, 
and  I longed  for  a simple  stage,  a few  simple  indica- 
tions, and  the  simple  recitation  of  that  story  of  the 
sacrifice  of  the  two  white  souls  for  the  reconciliation 
of  two  great  families.  My  hatred  did  not  reach  to 
the  age  of  the  man  who  played  the  boy-lover,  but  to 
the  offensiveness  with  which  he  thrust  his  individual- 
ity upon  me,  longing  to  realize  the  poet’s  divine  imagi- 
nation : and  the  woman,  too,  I wished  with  my  whole 
soul  away,  subtle  and  strange  though  she  was,  and  I 
yearned  for  her  part  to  be  played  by  a youth  as  in 
old  time:  a youth  cunningly  disguised,  would  be  a 
symbol ; and  my  mind  would  be  free  to  imagine  the 
divine  J uliet  of  the  poet,  whereas  I could  but  dream 
of  the  bright  eyes  and  delicate  mien  and  motion  of 
the  woman  who  had  thrust  herself  between  me  and  it. 

But  not  with  symbol  and  subtle  suggestion  has  the 
villa  to  do,  but  with  such  stolid,  intellectual  fare  as 
corresponds  to  its  material  wants.  The  villa  has  not 
time  to  think,  the  villa  is  the  working  bee.  The  tav- 
ern is  the  drone.  It  has  no  boys  to  put  to  school,  no 
neighbours  to  studv,  and  is  therefore  a little  more 


150  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


refined,  or,  should  I say?  depraved,  in  its  taste. 
The  villa  in  one  form  or  other  has  always  existed, 
and  always  will  exist  so  long  as  our  present  social 
system  holds  together.  It  is  the  basis  of  life,  and 
more  important  than  the  tavern.  Agreed:  but  that 
cloes  not  say  that  the  tavern  was  not  an  excellent  cor- 
rective influence  to  the  villa,  and  that  its  disappear- 
ance has  not  had  a vulgarising  effect  on  artistic  work 
of  all  kinds,  and  the  club  has  been  proved  impo- 
tent to  replace  it,  the  club  being  no  more  than  the 
correlative  of  the  villa.  Let  the  reader  trace  villa 
through  each  modem  feature.  I will  pass  on  at  once 
to  the  circulating  library,  at  once  the  symbol  and 
glory  of  villaism. 

The  subject  is  not  unfamiliar  to  me;  I come  to 
it  like  the  son  to  his  father,  like  the  bird  to  its  nest. 
(Singularly  inappropriate  comparison,  but  I am  in 
such  excellent  humour  to-day ; humour  is  everything. 
It  is  said  that  the  tiger  will  sometimes  play  with 
the  lamb ! Let  us  play.)  We  have  the  villa  well  in 
our  mind.  The  father  who  goes  to  the  city  in  the 
morning,  the  grown-up  girls  waiting  to  be  married, 
the  big  drawing-room  where  they  play  waltz  music, 
and  talk  of  dancing  parties.  But  waltzes  will  not 
entirely  suffice,  nor  even  tennis ; the  girls  must  read. 
Mother  cannot  keep  a censor  (it  is  as  much  as  she  can 
do  to  keep  a cook,  housemaid,  and  page-boy),  be- 
sides the  expense  would  be  enormous,  even  if  noth- 
ing but  shilling  and  two-shilling  novels  were  pur- 
chased. Out  of  such  circumstances  the  circulating 
library  was  hatched. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  151 


The  villa  made  known  its  want,  and  art  fell  on 
its  knees.  Pressure  was  put  on  the  publishers,  and 
books  were  published  at  315.  6 d.)  the  dirty,  outside 
public  was  got  rid  of,  and  the  villa  paid  its  yearly 
subscription,  and  had  nice  large  handsome  books  that 
none  but  the  elite  could  obtain,  and  with  them  a sense 
of  being  put  on  a footing  of  equality  with  my  Lady 
This  and  Lady  That,  and  certainty  that  nothing 
would  come  into  the  hands  of  dear  Kate  and  Mary 
and  Maggie  that  they  might  not  read,  and  all  for 
two  guineas  a year.  English  fiction  became  pure, 
and  the  garlic  and  assafoetida  with  which  Byron, 
Fielding,  and  Ben  Jonson  so  liberally  seasoned  their 
works,  and  in  spite  of  which,  as  critics  say,  they  were 
geniuses,  have  disappeared  from  our  literature.  Eng- 
lish fiction  became  pure,  dirty  stories  were  to  be 
heard  no  more,  were  no  longer  procurable.  But  at 
this  point  human  nature  intervened ; poor  human  na- 
ture ! when  you  pinch  it  in  in  one  place  it  bulges  out 
in  another,  after  the  fashion  of  a lady’s  figure.  Hu- 
man nature  has  from  the  earliest  time  shown  a liking 
for  dirty  stories;  dirty  stories  have  formed  a sub- 
stantial part  of  every  literature  (I  employ  the  words 
“dirty  stories”  in  the  circulating  library  sense)  ; 
therefore  a taste  for  dirty  stories  may  be  said  to  be 
inherent  in  the  human  animal.  Call  it  a disease  if 
you  will — an  incurable  disease — which,  if  it  is  driven 
inwards,  will  break  out  in  an  unexpected  quarter  in 
a new  form  and  with  redoubled  virulence.  This  is 
exactly  wThat  has  happened.  Actuated  by  the  most; 
laudable  motives,  Mudie  cut  off  our  rations  of  dirty 


152  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


stories,  and  for  forty  years  we  wTere  apparently  tlie 
most  moral  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  was 
confidently  asserted  that  an  English  woman  of  sixty 
would  not  read  what  would  bring  the  blush  of  shame 
to  the  cheeks  of  a maiden  of  any  other  nation.  But 
humiliation  and  sorrow  were  awaiting  Mudie.  True 
it  is  that  we  still  continued  to  subscribe  to  his  library, 
true  it  is  that  we  still  continued  to  go  to  church,  true 
it  is  that  we  turned  our  faces  away  when  Mdlle.  de 
Maupin  or  the  Assommoir  was  spoken  of ; to  all  ap- 
pearance we  were  as  good  and  chaste  as  even  Mudie 
might  wish  us;  and  no  doubt  he  looked  back  upon 
his  forty  years  of  effort  with  pride;  no  doubt  he 
beat  his  manly  breast  and  said,  “I  have  scorched  the 
evil  one  out  of  the  villa;  the  head  of  the  serpent  is 
crushed  for  evermore but  lo,  suddenly,  with  all 
the  horror  of  an  earthquake,  the  slumbrous  law  courts 
awoke,  and  the  burning  cinders  of  fornication  and 
the  blinding  and  suffocating  smoke  of  adultery  were 
poured  upon  and  hung  over  the  land.  Through  the 
mighty  columns  of  our  newspapers  the  terrible  lava 
rolled  unceasing,  and  in  the  black  stream  the  villa, 
with  all  its  beautiful  illusions,  tumbled  and  disap^ 
peared. 

An  awful  and  terrifying  proof  of  the  futility  of 
human  effort,  that  there  is  neither  bad  work  nor 
good  work  to  do,  nothing  but  to  await  the  coming 
of  the  Nirvana. 

I have  written  much  against  the  circulating 
library,  and  I have  read  a feeble  defence  or  two ; but 
I have  not  seen  the  argument  that  might  be  legiti- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  153 


mately  put  forward  in  its  favour.  It  seems  to  me 
this:  the  circulating  library  is  conservatism,  art  is 
always  conservative;  the  circulating  library  lifts  the 
writer  out  of  the  precariousness  and  noise  of  the  wild 
street  of  popular  fancy  into  a quiet  place  where  pas- 
sion is  more  restrained  and  there  is  more  reflection. 
The  young  and  unknown  writer  is  placed  at  once  in 
a place  of  comparative  security,  and  he  is  not  forced 
to  employ  vile  and  degrading  methods  of  attracting 
attention ; the  known  writer,  having  a certain  market 
for  his  work,  is  enabled  to  think  more  of  it  and  less 
of  the  immediate  acclamation  of  the  crowd;  but  all 
these  possible  advantages  are  destroyed  and  rendered 
nil  by  the  veracious  censorship  exercised  by  the 
librarian. 

***** 

There  is  one  thing  in  England  that  is  free,  that 
is  spontaneous,  that  reminds  me  of  the  blitheness  and 
nationalness  of  the  Continent ; — but  there  is  nothing 
French  about  it,  it  is  wholly  and  essentially  Eng- 
lish, and  in  its  communal  enjoyment  and  its  spon- 
taneity it  is  a survival  of  Elizabethan  England — I 
mean  the  musie-hall;  the  French  music-hall  seems  to 
me  silly,  effete,  sophisticated,  and  lacking,  not  in 
the  popularity,  but  in  the  vulgarity  of  an  English 
hall — I will  not  say  the  Pavilion,  wThich  is  too  cos- 
mopolitan, dreary  French  comics  are  heard  there — 
for  preference  let  us  say  the  Royal.  I shall  not 
easily  forget  my  first  evening  there,  when  I saw  for 
the  time  a living  house — the  dissolute  paragraphists, 
the  elegant  mashers  (mark  the  imaginativeness  of  the 


154  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


slang),  the  stolid,  good-humoured  costers,  the  cheerful 
lights  o’  love,  the  extraordinary  comics.  What  de- 
lightful unison  of  enjoyment,  what  unanimity  of 
soul,  what  communality  of  wit ; all  knew  each  other, 
all  enjoyed  each  other’s  presence;  in  a word,  there 
was  life.  Then  there  were  no  cascades  of  real  water, 
nor  London  docks,  nor  offensively  rich  furniture,  with 
hotel  lifts  down  which  some  one  will  certainly  be 
thrown,  but  one  scene  representing  a street;  a man 
comes  on — not,  mind  you,  in  a real  smock-frock, 
but  in  something  that  suggests  one — and  sings  of 
how  he  came  up  to  London,  and  was  “cleaned  out” 
by  thieves.  Simple,  you  will  say;  yes,  but  better 
than  a fricassee  of  Faust , garnished  with  hags,  imps, 
and  blue  flame;  better,  far  better  than  a drawing- 
room set  at  the  St.  James’s,  with  an  exhibition  of 
passion  by  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Kendal;  better,  a million 
times  better  than  the  cheap  popularity  of  Wilson 
Barrett — an  elderly  man  posturing  in  a low-necked 
dress  to  some  poor  slut  in  the  gallery;  nor  is  there 
in  the  hall  any  affectation  of  language,  nor  that  worn- 
out  rhetoric  which  reminds  you  of  a broken-winded 
barrel-organ  playing  a che  la  morte,  bad  enough  in 
prose,  but  when  set  up  in  blank  verse  awful  and 
shocking  in  its  more  than  natural  deformity — but 
bright  quips  and  cracks  fresh  from  the  back-yard  of 
the  slum  where  the  linen  is  drying,  or  the  “pub” 
where  the  unfortunate  wife  has  just  received  a black 
eye  that  will  last  her  a week.  That  inimitable  artist, 
Bessie  Bellwood,  whose  native  wit  is  so  curiously 
accentuated  that  it  is  sublimated,  that  it  is  no  longer 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  155 


repellent  vulgarity  but  art,  choice  and  rare — see, 
here  she  comes  with  “What  cheer,  Rea ; Ilea’s  on  the 
job.”  The  sketch  is  slight,  but  is  welcome  and  re- 
freshing after  the  eternal  drawing-room  and  Mrs. 
Kendal’s  cumbrous  domesticity ; it  is  curious,  quaint,, 
perverted,  and  are  not  these  the  aions  and  the  attri- 
butes of  art?  Now  see  that  perfect  comedian, 
Arthur  Roberts,  superior  to  Irving  because  he  is 
working  with  living  material;  how  trim  and  saucy 
he  is!  and  how  he  evokes  the  soul,  the  brandy-and- 
soda  soul,  of  the  young  men,  delightful  and  elegant  in 
black  and  white,  who  are  so  vociferously  cheering 
him,  “Will  you  stand  me  a cab-fare,  ducky,  I am 
feeling  so  awfully  queer  ?”  The  soul,  the  spirit,  the 
entity  of  Piccadilly  Circus  is  in  the  words,  and  the 
scene  the  comedian’s  eyes — each  look  is  full  of  sug- 
gestion; it  is  irritating,  it  is  magnetic,  it  is  symbolic,, 
it  is  art. 

Not  art,  but  a sign,  a presentiment  of  an  art,  that 
may  grow  from  the  present  seeds,  that  may  rise  into 
some  stately  and  unpremeditated  efflorescence,  as'  the 
rhapsodist  rose  to  Sophocles,  as  the  miracle  play  rose 
through  Peele  and  Nash  to  Marlowe,  hence  to  the 
wondrous  summer  of  Shakespeare,  to  die  later  on 
in  the  mist  and  yellow  and  brown  of  the  autumn  of 
Crowes  and  Davenants.  I have  seen  music-hall 
sketches,  comic  interludes  that  in  their  unexpectedness 
and  naive  naturalness  remind  meof  the  comic  passages 
in  Marlowe’s  Faustus,  I waited  (I  admit  in  vain)  for 
some  beautiful  phantom  to  appear,  and  to  hear  an  en- 
thusiastic worshipper  cry  out  in  his  agony : — 


156  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 

“Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a thousand  ships 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium? 

Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a kiss. 

Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul;  see  where  it  flies! 

Come,  Helen,  come;  give  me  my  soul  again. 

Here  will  I dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips, 

And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 79 

And  then  the  astonishing  change  of  key : — 

“I  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee, 

Instead  of  Troy  shall  Wurtemberg  be  sacked, 99  etc. 

The  hall  is  at  least  a protest  against  the  weari- 
some stories  concerning  wills,  misers  in  old  castles, 
lost  heirs,  and  the  woeful  solutions  of  such  things — 
she  who  has  been  kept  in  the  castle  cellar  for  twenty 
years  restored  to  the  delights  of  hair-pins  and  a 
mauve  dress,  the  ingenue  to  the  protecting  arm,  etc. 
The  music-hall  is  a protest  against  Mrs.  Kendal’s 
marital  tendernesses  and  the  abortive  platitudes  of 
Messrs.  Pettit  and  Sims ; the  music-hall  is  a protest 
against  Sardou  and  the  immense  drawing-room  sets, 
rich  hangings,  velvet  sofas,  etc.,  so  different  from 
the  movement  of  the  English  comedy  with  its  constant 
change  of  scene.  The  music-hall  is  a protest  against 
the  villa,  the  circulating  library,  the  club,  and  for 
this  the  “ ’all”  is  inexpressibly  dear  to  me. 

But  in  the  interests  of  those  illiterate  institutions 
called  theatres  it  is  not  permissible  for  several  char- 
acters to  narrate  events  in  which  there  is  a sequel,  by 
means  of  dialogue,  in  a music-hall.  If  this  vexatious 
restriction  were  removed  it  is  possible,  if  it  is  not 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  157 


certain,  that  while  some  halls  remained  faithful  to 
comic  songs  and  jugglers  others  would  gradually  learn 
to  cater  for  more  intellectual  and  subtle  audiences, 
and  that  out  of  obscurity  and  disorder  new  dramatic 
forms,  coloured  and  permeated  by  the  thought  and 
feeling  of  to-day,  might  be  definitely  evolved.  It 
is  our  only  chance  of  again  possessing  a dramatic 
literature. 


CHAPTER  X 


IT  is  said  that  young  men  of  genius  come  to  London 
with  great  poems  and  dramas  in  their  pockets  and 
find  every  door  closed  against  them.  Chatterton’s 
death  perpetuated  this  legend.  But  when  I,  Edward 
Bayne,  came  to  London  in  search  of  literary  adven- 
ture, I found  a ready  welcome.  Possibly  I should 
not  have  been  accorded  any  welcome  had  I been 
anything  but  an  ordinary  person.  Let  this  be  waived. 
I was  as  covered  with  “fads”  as  a distinguished  for- 
eigner with  stars.  Naturalism  I wore  round  my  neck, 
Romanticism  was  pinned  over  the  heart,  Symbolism 
I carried  like  a toy  revolver  in  my  waistcoat  pocket, 
to  be  used  on  an  emergency.  I do  not  judge  whether 
I was  charlatan  or  genius,  I merely  state  that  I found 
all — actors,  managers,  editors,  publishers,  docile  and 
Teady  to  listen  to  me.  The  world  may  be  wicked, 
cruel,  and  stupid,  but  it  is  patient;  on  this  point  I 
will  not  be  gainsaid,  it  is  patient;  I know  what  I 
am  talking  about;  I maintain  that  the  world  is 
patient.  If  it  were  not,  what  would  have  happened  ? 
I should  have  been  murdered  by  the  editors  of  (I 
will  suppress  names),  tom  in  pieces  by  the  sub-edi- 
tors, and  devoured  by  the  office  boys.  There  was  no 
wild  theory  which  I did  not  assail  them  with,  there 
was  no  strange  plan  for  the  instant  extermination 
of  the  Philistine,  which  I did  not  press  upon  them, 

158 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  159 


and  (here  I must  whisper),  with  a fail  amount  of 
success,  not  complete  success  I am  glad  to  say — that 
would  have  meant  for  the  editors  a change  from  their 
arm-chairs  to  the  benches  of  the  Union  and  the  plank 
beds  of  Holloway.  The  actress  when  she  returned 
home  from  the  theatre,  suggested  I had  an  «nemy,  a 
vindictive  enemy,  who  dogged  my  steps ; but  her  stage 
experience  led  her  astray.  I had  no  enemy  except 
myself;  or  to  put  it  scientifically,  no  enemy  except 
the  logical  consequences  of  my  past  life  and  educa- 
tion, and  these  caused  me  a great  and  real  inconven- 
ience. French  wit  was  in  my  brain,  French  senti- 
ment was  in  my  heart ; of  the  English  soul  I knew 
nothing,  and  I could  not  remember  old  sympathies, 
it  was  like  seeking  forgotten  words,  and  if  I were 
writing  a short  story,  I had  to  return  in  thought  to 
Montmartre  or  the  Champs  Elysees  for  my  char- 
acters. That  I should  have  forgotten  so  much  in  ten 
years  seems  incredible,  and  it  will  be  deemed  impos- 
sible by  many,  but  that  is  because  few  are  aware  of 
how  little  they  know  of  the  details  of  life,  even  of 
their  own,  and  are  incapable  of  appreciating  th* 
influence  of  their  past  upon  their  present.  The  visi 
ble  world  is  visible  only  to  a few,  the  moral  world  is  a 
closed  book  to  nearly  all.  I was  full  of  France,  and 
France  had  to  be  got  rid  of,  or  pushed  out  of  sight 
before  I could  understand  England;  I was  like  a 
snake  striving  to  slough  its  skin. 

Handicapped  as  I was  with  dangerous  ideas,  and 
an  impossible  style,  defeat  was  inevitable.  My  Eng- 
lish was  rotten  with  French  idiom;  it  was  like  an  ill- 


160  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


built  wall  overpowered  by  huge  masses  of  ivy;  the 
weak  foundations  had  given  way  beneath  the  weight 
of  the  parasite ; and  the  ideas  I sought  to  give  expres- 
sion to  were  green,  sour,  and  immature  as  apples  in 
August. 

Therefore  before  long  the  leading  journal  that 
had  printed  two  poems  and  some  seven  or  eight  criti- 
cal articles,  ceased  to  send  me  books  for  review,  and 
I fell  back  upon  obscure  society  papers.  Fortunately 
it  was  not  incumbent  on  me  to  live  by  my  pen ; so  I 
talked,  and  watched,  and  waited  till  I grew  akin  to 
those  around  me,  and  my  thoughts  blended  with,  and 
took  root  in  my  environment.  I wrote  a play  or  two, 
I translated  a French  opera,  which  had  a run  of  six 
nights,  I dramatized  a novel,  I wrote  short  stories, 
and  I read  a good  deal  of  contemporary  fiction. 

The  first  book  that  came  under  my  hand  was  “A 
Portrait  of  a Lady,”  by  Henry  James.  Each  scene 
is  developed  with  complete  foresight  and  certainty  of 
touch.  What  Mr.  James  wants  to  do  he  does.  I 
will  admit  that  an  artist  may  be  great  and  limited; 
by  one  word  he  may  light  up  an  abyss  of  soul;  but 
there  must  be  this  one  magical  and  unique  word. 
Shakespeare  gives  us  the  word,  Balzac,  sometimes, 
after  pages  of  vain  striving,  gives  us  the  word,  Tour- 
gueneff  gives  it  with  miraculous  certainty ; but  Henry 
James,  no;  a hundred  times  he  flutters  about  it;  his 
whole  book  is  one  long  flutter  near  to  the  one  magical 
and  unique  word,  but  the  word  is  not  spoken;  and 
for  want  of  the  word  his  characters  are  never  resolved 
out  of  the  haze  of  nebulae.  You  are  on  ^ bowing 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  161 


acquaintance  with  them ; they  pass  you  in  the  street, 
they  stop  and  speak  to  you,  you  know  how  they  are 
dressed,  you  watch  the  colour  of  their  eyes.  When 
I think  of  “A  Portrait  of  a Lady,”  with  its  mar- 
vellous crowd  of  well-dressed  people,  it  comes  back 
to  me  precisely  as  an  accurate  memory  of  a fashion- 
able soiree — the  staircase  with  its  ascending  figures, 
the  hostess  smiling,  the  host  at  a little  distance  with 
his  back  turned;  some  one  calls  him.  He  turns;  I 
can  see  his  white  kid  gloves ; the  air  is  as  sugar  with 
the  odour  of  the  gardenias ; there  is  brilliant  light 
here;  there  is  shadow  in  the  further  rooms;  the 
women’s  feet  pass  to  and  fro  beneath  the  stiff  skirts ; 
I call  for  my  hat  and  coat;  I light  a cigar;  I stroll 
up  Piccadilly  ...  a very  pleasant  evening;  I hare 
seen  a good  many  people  I knew ; I have  observed  an 
attitude,  and  an  earnestness  of  manner  that  proved 
that  a heart  was  beating. 

Mr.  James  might  say,  “If  I have  done  this,  I have 
done  a great  deal,”  and  1 would  answer,  “No  doubt 
you  are  a man  of  great  talent,  great  cultivation  and 
not  at  all  of  the  common  herd;  I place  you  in  the 
very  front  rank,  not  only  of  novelists  but  of  men  of 
letters.” 

I have  read  nothing  of  Henry  J ames’s  that  did  sug- 
gest the  manner  of  a scholar ; but  why  should  a 
scholar  limit  himself  to  empty  and  endless  senti- 
mentalities? I will  not  taunt  him  with  any  of  the 
old  taunts — why  does  he  not  write  complicated 
stories?  Why  does  he  not  complete  his  stories? 
Let  all  this  be  waived.  I will  ask  him  only 


162  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


why  he  always  avoids  decisive  action  ? Why  does  a 
woman  never  say  “I  will”  ? Why  does  a woman  never 
leave  the  house  with  her  lover?  Why  does  a man 
never  kill  a man  ? Why  does  a man  never  kill  him- 
self ? Why  is  nothing  ever  accomplished?  In  real 
life  murder,  adultery,  and  suicide  are  of  common  oc- 
currence; but  Mr.  James’s  people  live  in  a calm,  sad, 
and  very  polite  twilight  of  volition.  Suicide  or  adul- 
tery has  happened  before  the  story  begins,  suicide  or 
adultery  happens  some  years  hence,  when  the  char- 
acters have  left  the  stage,  but  bang  in  front  of  the 
reader  nothing  happens.  The  suppression  or  main- 
tenance of  story  in  a novel  is  a matter  of  personal 
taste;  some  prefer  character-drawing  to  adventures, 
some  adventures  to  character-drawing;  that  you  can- 
not have  both  at  once  I take  to  be  a self-evident  pro- 
position ; so  when  Mr.  Lang  says,  “I  like  adventures,” 
I say,  “Oh,  do  you  ?”  as  I might  to  a man  who  says 
“I  like  sherry,”  and  no  doubt  when  I say  I like 
character-drawing,  Mr.  Lang  says,  “Oh,  do  you  ?”  as 
he  might  to  a man  who  says,  “I  like  port.”  But  Mr. 
James  and  I are  agreed  on  essentials,  we  prefer  char- 
acter-drawing to  adventures.  One,  two,  or  even  three 
determining  actions  are  not  antagonistic  to  character- 
drawing, the  practice  of  Balzac,  and  Flaubert,  and 
Thackeray  prove  that.  . Is  Mr.  James  of  the  same 
mind  as  the  poet  Verlaine — 

“La  nuance,  pas  la  couleur, 

Seulement  la  nuance, 

Tout  le  rest©  est  literature. 9 9 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  163 


In  connection  with  Henry  J ames  I had  often  heard 
the  name  of  W.  D.  Howells.  I bought  some  three  or 
four  of  his  novels.  I found  them  pretty,  very  pretty, 
but  nothing  more, — a sort  of  Ashby  Sterry  done  into* 
very  neat  prose.  He  is  vulgar,  is  refined  as  Henry 
James;  he  is  more  domestic;  girls  with  white  dresses 
and  virginal  looks,  languid  mammas,  mild  witticisms, 
here,  there,  and  everywhere ; a couple  of  young  men, 
one  a little  cynical,  the  other  a little  over-shadowed  by 
his  love,  a strong,  bearded  man  of  fifty  in  the  back- 
ground ; in  a word,  a Tom  Robertson  comedy  faintly 
spiced  with  American.  Henry  J ames  went  to  France 
and  read  Tourgueneff.  W.  D.  Howells  stayed  at 
home  and  read  Henry  James.  Henry  James’s  mind 
is  of  a higher  cast  and  temper;  I have  no  doubt  at 
one  time  of  his  life  Henry  James  said,  I will  write 
the  moral  history  of  America,  as  Tourgueneff  wrote 
the  moral  history  of  Russia — he  borrowed  at  first 
hand,  understanding  what  he  was  borrowing.  W.  D. 
Howells  borrowed  at  second  hand,  and  without  un- 
derstanding what  he  was  borrowing.  Altogether' Mr. 
James’s  instincts  are  more  scholarly.  Although  his 
reserve  irritates  me,  and  I often  regret  his  conces- 
sions to  the  prudery  of  the  age, — no,  not  of  the  age 
but  of  librarians, — I cannot  but  feel  that  his  con- 
cessions, for  I suppose  I must  call  them  concessions, 
are  to  a certain  extent  self-imposed,  regretfully,  per- 
haps . . . somewhat  in  this  fashion — “True,  that  I 
live  in  an  age  not  very  favourable  to  artistic  pro- 
duction, but  the  art  of  an  age  is  the  spirit  of  that 
age ; if  I violate  the  prejudices  of  the  age  I shall  miss 


164  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


its  spirit,  and  an  art  that  is  not  redolent  of  the  spirit 
of  its  age  is  an  artificial  flower,  perfumeless,  or  per- 
fumed with  the  scent  of  flowers  that  bloomed  three 
hundred  years  ago.”  Plausible,  ingenious,  quite  in 
the  spirit  of  Mr.  James’s  mind;  I can  almost  hear 
him  reason  so;  nor  does  the  argument  displease  me, 
for  it  is  conceived  in  a scholarly  spirit.  Now  my 
conception  of  W.  D.  Howells  is  quite  different — I see 
him  the  happy  father  of  a numerous  family ; the  sun 
is  shining,  the  girls  and  boys  are  playing  on  the  lawn, 
they  come  trooping  in  to  a high  tea,  and  there  is 
dancing  in  the  evening. 

My  fat  landlady  lent  me  a novel  by  George  Mere- 
dith,— “Tragic  Comedians” ; I was  glad  to  receive  it, 
for  my  admiration  of  his  poetry,  with  which  I was 
slightly  acquainted,  was  very  genuine  indeed.  “Love 
in  a Valley”  is  a beautiful  poem,  and  the  “Nuptials 
of  Attila,”  I read  it  in  the  New  Quarterly  Review 
years  ago,  is  very  present  in  my  mind,  and  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  recall  its  chanting  rhythm,  and  lordly  and 
sombre  refrain — “Make  the  bed  for  Attila.”  I ex- 
pected, therefore,  one  of  my  old  passionate  delights 
from  his  novels.  I was  disappointed,  painfully  dis- 
appointed. But  before  I say  more  concerning  Mr. 
Meredith,  I will  admit  at  once  frankly  and  fear- 
lessly, that  I am  not  a competent  critic,  because  emo- 
tionally I do  not  understand  him,  and  all  except  an 
emotional  understanding  is  worthless  in  art.  I do 
not  make  this  admission  because  I am  intimidated  by 
the  weight  and  height  of  the  critical  authority  with 
which  I am  overshadowed,  but  from  a certain  sense. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  165 


of  which  I am  as  distinctly  conscious,  viz.,  that  the 
author  is,  how  shall  I put  it?  the  French  would  say 
“quelqu’un,”  that  expresses  what  I would  say  in  Eng- 
lish. I remember,  too,  that  although  a man  may  be 
able  to  understand  anything,  that  there  must  be  some 
modes  of  thoughts  and  attitudes  of  mind  which  we 
are  so  naturally  antagonistic  to,  so  entirely  out  of 
sympathy  with,  that  we  are  in  no  true  sense  critics 
of  them.  Such  are  the  thoughts  that  come  to  me  when 
I read  Mr.  George  Meredith.  I try  to  console  my- 
self with  such  reflections,  and  then  I break  forth,  and 
crying  passionately: — jerks,  wire  splintered  wood. 
In  Balzac,  which  I know  by  heart,  in  Shakespeare, 
which  I have  just  begun  to  love,  I find  words  deeply 
impregnated  with  the  savour  of  life;  but  in  George 
Meredith  there  is  nothing  but  crack  jaw  sentences, 
empty  and  unpleasant  in  the  mouth  as  sterile  nuts. 
I could  select  hundreds  of  phrases  which  Mr.  Mere- 
dith would  probably  call  epigrams,  and  I would  defy 
anyone  to  say  they  were  wise,  graceful  or  witty.  I 
do  not  know  any  book  more  tedious  than  “Tragic 
Comedians,”  more  pretentious,  more  blatant ; it  struts 
and  screams,  stupid  in  all  its  gaud  and  absurdity  as 
a cockatoo.  More  than  fifty  pages  I could  not  read. 

How,  I asked  myself,  could  the  man  who  wrote 
the  “Nuptials  of  Attila”  write  this  ? but  my  soul  re- 
turned no  answer,  and  I listened  as  one  in  a hollow 
mountain  side.  My  opinion  of  George  Meredith 
never  ceases  to  puzzle  me.  He  is  of  the  north,  I am 
of  the  south.  Carlyle,  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  and 
George  Meredith  are  the  three  essentially  northern 


166  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


writers ; in  them  there  is  nothing  of  Latin  sensuality 
and  subtlety. 

I took  up  “Rhoda  Fleming.”  I found  some  ex- 
quisite bits  of  description  in  it,  but  I heartily  wished 
them  in  verse,  they  were  motives  for  poems;  and 
there  was  some  wit.  I remember  a passage  very  racy 
indeed,  of  middle-class  England.  Antony,  I think  is 
the  man’s  name,  describes  how  he  is  interrupted  at 
his  tea ; a paragraph  of  seven  or  ten  lines  with  “I  am 
having  my  tea,  I am  at  my  tea,”  running  through  it 
for  refrain.  Then  a description  of  a lodging-house 
dinner : “a  block  of  bread  on  a lonely  plate,  and  pota- 
toes that  looked  as  if  they  had  committed  suicide  in 
their  own  steam.”  A little  ponderous  and  stilted, 
but  undoubtedly  witty.  I read  on  until  I came  to  a 
young  man  who  fell  from  his  horse,  or  had  been 
thrown  from  his  horse,  I never  knew  which,  nor  did 
I feel  enough  interest  in  the  matter  to  make  research ; 
the  young  man  was  put  to  bed  by  his  mother,  and  once 
in  bed  he  began  to  talk ! . . . four,  five,  six,  ten  pages 
of  talk,  and  such  talk!  I can  offer  no  opinion  why 
Mr.  George  Meredith  committed  them  to  paper;  it 
is  not  narrative,  it  is  not  witty,  nor  is  it  sentimental, 
nor  is  it  profound.  I read  it  once;  my  mind  aston- 
ished at  receiving  no  sensation  cried  out  like  a child 
at  a milkless  breast.  I read  the  pages  again  . . . did 
I understand  ? Yes,  I understood  every  sentence,  but 
they  conveyed  no  idea,  they  awoke  no  emotion  in  me ; 
it  was  like  sand,  arid  and  uncomfortable.  The  story 
is  surprisingly  commonplace — the  people  in  it  are  as 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  167 


lacking  in  subtlety  as  those  of  a Drury  Lane  melo- 
drama. 

“Diana  of  the  Crossways”  I liked  better,  and  had 
I had  absolutely  nothing  to  do  I might  have  read  it 
to  the  end.  I remember  a scene  with  a rustic — a 
rustic  who  could  eat  hog  a solid  hour — that  amused 
me.  I remember  the  sloppy  road  in  the  Weald,  and 
the  vague  outlines  of  the  South  Downs  seen  in  star- 
light and  mist.  But  to  come  to  the  great  question, 
the  test  by  which  Time  will  judge  us  all — the  crea- 
tion of  a human  being,  of  a live  thing  that  we  have 
met  with  in  life  before,  and  meet  for  the  first  time 
in  print,  and  who  abides  with  us  ever  after.  Into 
what  shadow  has  not  Diana  floated  ? Where  are  the 
magical  glimpses  of  the  soul  ? Do  you  remember  in 
“ Peres  et  Enfants,”  when  Tourgueneff  is  unveiling 
the  woman’s,  shall  I say,  affection,  for  Bazaroff,  or 
the  interest  she  feels  in  him?  and  exposing  at  the 
same  time  the  reasons  why  she  will  never  marry 
him.  ...  I wish  I had  the  book  by  me,  I have  not 
seen  it  for  ten  years. 

After  striving  through  many  pages  to  put  Lucien, 
whom  you  would  have  loved,  whom  I would  have 
loved,  that  divine  representation  of  all  that  is  young 
and  desirable  in  man,  before  the  reader,  Balzac  puts 
these  words  in  his  mouth  in  reply  to  an  impatient 
question  by  Vautrin,  who  asks  him  what  he  wants, 
what  he  is  sighing  for,  “D’etre  celebre  et  d'etre  dime,” 
' — these  are  soul-waking  words,  these  are  Shakespeare 
Words. 

Where  in  “Diana  of  the  Crossways”  do  we  find. 


168  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


soul-evoking  words  like  these  ? With  tiresome  repeti- 
tion we  are  told  that  she  is  beautiful,  divine ; but  I 
see  her  not  at  all,  I don’t  know  if  she  is  dark,  tall,  or 
fair;  with  tiresome  reiteration  we  are  told  that  she 
is  brilliamt,  that  her  conversation  is  like  a display  of 
fireworks,  that  the  company  is  dazzled  and  overcome ; 
but  when  she  speaks  the  utterances  are  grotesque,  and 
I say  that  if  any  one  spoke  to  me  in  real  life  as  she 
does  in  the  novel,  I should  not  doubt  for  an  instant 
that  I was  in  the  company  of  a lunatic.  The  epi- 
grams are  never  good,  they  never  come  within  meas- 
urable distance  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  Balzac,  or  even 
Goncourt.  The  admirers  of  Mr.  Meredith  constantly 
deplore  their  existence,  admitting  that  they  destroy 
all  illusion  of  life.  “When  we  have  translated  half 
of  Mr.  Meredith’s  utterances  into  possible  human 
speech,  then  we  can  enjoy  him,”  says  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette . We  take  our  pleasures  differently;  mine 
are  spontaneous,  and  I know  nothing  about  trans- 
lating the  rank  smell  of  a nettle  into  the  fragrance  of 
a rose,  and  then  enjoying  it. 

Mr.  Meredith’s  conception  of  life  is  crooked,  ill- 
balanced,  and  out  of  tune.  What  remains? — a cer- 
tain lustiness.  You  have  seen  a big  man  with  square 
shoulders  and  a small  head,  pushing  about  in  a crowd, 
he  shouts  and  works  his  arms,  he  seems  to  be  doing 
a great  deal,  in  reality  he  is  doing  nothing;  so  Mr. 
Meredith  appears  to  me,  and  yet  I can  only  think  of 
him  as  an  artist ; his  habit  is  not  slatternly,  like  those 
of  such  literary  hodmen  as  Mr.  David  Christie  Mur- 
ray, Mr.  Besant,  Mr.  Buchanan.  There  is  no  trace 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  169 


of  the  crowd  about  him,  I do  not  question  his  right 
of  place,  I am  out  of  sympathy  with  him,  that  is  all ; 
and  I regret  that  it  should  be  so,  for  he  is  one  whose 
love  of  art  is  pure  and  untainted  with  commercial- 
ism, and  if  I may  praise  it  for  nought  else,  I can 
praise  it  for  this. 

I have  noticed  that  if  I buy  a book  because  I am 
advised,  or  because  I think  I ought,  my  reading  is 
sure  to  prove  sterile.  II  faut  que  cela  vient  de  moi , 
as  a woman  once  said  to  me,  speaking  of  her  caprices ; 
a quotation,  a chance  word  heard  in  an  unexpected 
quarter.  Mr.  Hardy  and  Mr.  Blackmore  I read  be- 
cause I had  heard  that  they  were  distinguished  novel- 
ists; neither  touched  me,  I might  just  as  well  have 
bought  a daily  paper;  neither  like  nor  dislike,  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders — that  is  all.  Hardy  seems  to 
me  to  bear  about  the  same  relation  to  George  Eliot 
as  Jules  Breton  does  to  Millet — a vulgarisation  never 
offensive,  and  executed  with  ability.  The  story  of 
an  art  is  always  the  same,  ...  a succession  of  abor- 
tive but  ever  strengthening  efforts,  a moment  of'  su- 
preme concentration,  a succession  of  efforts  weak- 
ening the  final  extinction.  George  Eliot  gathered  up 
all  previous  attempts,  and  created  the  English  peas- 
ant; and  following  her  peasants  there  came  an  end- 
less crowd  from  Devon,  Yorkshire,  and  the  Midland 
Counties,  and,  as  they  came,  they  faded  into  the 
palest  shadows  until  at  last  they  appeared  in  red 
stockings,  high  heels  and  were  lost  in  the  chorus  of 
opera.  Mr.  Hardy  was  the  first  step  down.  His 
work  is  what  dramatic  critics  would  call  good,  honest. 


170  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


straightforward  work.  It  is  unillumined  by  a ray  of 
genius,  it  is  slow  and  somewhat  sodden.  It  reminds 
me  of  an  excellent  family  coach — one  of  the  old  sort 
hung  on  C springs — a fat  coachman  on  the  box  and 
a footman  whose  livery  was  made  for  his  predecessor. 
In  criticising  Mr.  Meredith  I was  out  of  sympathy 
with  my  author,  ill  at  ease,  angry,  puzzled ; but  with 
Mr.  Hardy  I am  on  quite  different  terms,  I am  as 
familiar  with  him  as  with  the  old  pair  of  trousers  I 
put  on  when  I sit  down  to  write;  I know  all  about 
his  aims,  his  methods ; I know  what  has  been  done  in 
that  line,  and  what  can  be  done. 

I have  heard  that  Mr.  Hardy  is  country  bred,  but 
I should  not  have  discovered  this  from  his  writings. 
They  read  to  me  more  like  a report,  yes,  a report, — a 
conscientious,  well-done  report,  executed  by  a thor- 
oughly efficient  writer  sent  down  by  one  of  the  daily 
papers.  Nowhere  do  I find  selection,  everything  is 
reported,  dialogues  and  descriptions.  Take  for  in- 
stance the  long  evening  talk  between  the  farm  people 
when  Oak  is  seeking  employment.  It  is  not  the  abso- 
lute and  literal  transcript  from  nature  after  the  man- 
ner of  Henri  Monier ; for  that  it  is  a little  too  diluted 
with  Mr.  Hardy’s  brains,  the  edges  are  a little  sharp- 
ened and  pointed,  I can  see  where  the  author  has 
been  at  work  filing ; on  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  syn- 
thesized— the  magical  word  which  reveals  the  past, 
and  through  which  we  divine  the  future — is  not 
seized  and  set  triumphantly  as  it  is  in  “Silas 
Mamer.”  The  descriptions  do  not  flow  out  of  and 
form  part  of  the  narrative,  but  are  wedged  in,  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  171 


often  awkwardly.  We  are  invited  to  assist  at  a sheep- 
shearing scene,  or  at  a harvest  supper,  because  these 
scenes  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  George 
Eliot,  because  the  reader  is  supposed  to  be  interested 
in  such  things,  because  Mr.  Hardy  is  anxious  to  show 
how  jolly  country  he  is. 

Collegians,  when  they  attempt  character-drawing, 
create  monstrosities,  but  a practised  writer  should  be 
able  to  create  men  and  women  capable  of  moving 
through  a certain  series  of  situations  without  shock- 
ing in  any  violent  way  the  most  generally  applicable 
principles  of  common  sense.  I say  that  a practised 
writer  should  be  able  to  do  this ; that  they  sometimes 
do  not  is  a matter  which  I will  not  now  go  into, 
suffice  it  for  my  purpose  if  I admit  that  Mr.  Hardy 
can  do  this.  In  farmer  Oak  there  is  nothing  to  object 
to;  the  conception  is  logical,  the  execution  is  trust- 
worthy ; he  has  legs,  arms,  and  a heart ; but  the  vital 
spark  that  should  make  him  of  our  flesh  and  of  our 
soul  is  wanting,  it  is  dead  water  that  the  sunlight 
never  touches.  The  heroine  is  still  more  dim,  she  is 
stuffy,  she  is  like  tow ; the  rich  farmer  is  a figure  out 
of  any  melodrama,  Sergeant  Troy  nearly  quickens  to 
life;  now  and  then  the  clouds  are  liquescent,  but  a 
real  ray  of  light  never  falls. 

The  story-tellers  are  no  doubt  right  when  they  in- 
sist on  the  difficulty  of  telling  a story.  A sequence 
of  events — it  does  not  matter  how  simple  or  how  com- 
plicated— working  up  to  a logical  close,  or,  shall  I 
say,  a close  in  which  there  is  a sense  of  rhythm  and 
inevitableness  is  always  indicative  of  genius.  Shake- 


172  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


speare  affords  some  magnificent  examples,  likewise 
Balzac,  likewise  George  Eliot,  likewise  Tourgueneff ; 
the  “CEdipus”  is,  of  course,  the  crowning  and  final 
achievement  in  the  music  of  sequence  and  the  massy 
harmonies  of  fate.  But  in  contemporary  English 
fiction  I marvel,  and  I am  repeatedly  struck  by  the 
inability  of  writers,  even  of  the  first-class,  to  make  an 
organic  whole  of  their  stories.  Here,  I say,  the 
course  is  clear,  the  way  is  obvious,  but  no  sooner  do 
we  enter  on  the  last  chapters  than  the  story  begins 
to  show  incipient  shiftiness,  and  soon  it  doubles  back 
and  turns,  growing  with  every  turn  weaker  like  a 
hare  before  the  hounds.  From  a certain  directness 
of  construction,  from  the  simple  means  by  which 
Oak’s  ruin  is  accomplished  in  the  opening  chapters, 
I did  not  expect  that  the  story  would  run  hare-hearted 
in  its  close,  but  the  moment  Troy  told  his  wife  that 
he  never  cared  for  her,  I suspected  something  was 
w7rong ; when  he  went  down  to  bathe  and  was  carried 
out  by  the  current  I knew  the  game  was  up,  and  was 
prepared  for  anything,  even  for  the  final  shooting 
by  the  rich  farmer,  and  the  marriage  with  Oak,  a 
conclusion  which  of  course  does  not  come  within  the 
range  of  literary  criticism. 

“Loma  Doone”  struck  me  as  childishly  garrulous, 
stupidly  prolix,  swollen  with  comments  not  interest- 
ing in  themselves  and  leading  to  nothing.  Mr.  Hardy 
possesses  the  power  of  being  able  to  shape  events; 
he  can  mould  them  to  a certain  form ; that  he.  cannot 
breathe  into  them  the  spirit  of  life  I have  already 
said,  but  “Lorna  Doone”  reminds  me  of  a third-rate 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  173 


Italian  opera,  La  Fille  du  Regiment , or  Ernani;  it 
is  corrupt  with  all  the  vices  of  the  school,  and  it  does 
not  contain  a single  passage  of  real  fervour  or  force 
to  make  us  forget  the  inherent  defects  of  the  art  of 
which  it  is  a poor  specimen.  Wagner  made  the  dis- 
covery, not  a very  wonderful  one  after  all  when  we 
think,  that  an  opera  had  much  better  be  melody  from 
end  to  end.  The  realistic  school  following  on  Wag- 
ner’s footsteps  discovered  that  a novel  had  much  bet- 
ter be  all  narrative — an  uninterrupted  flow  of  narra- 
tive. Description  is  narrative,  analysis  of  character 
is  narrative,  dialogue  is  narrative ; the  form  is  cease- 
lessly changing,  but  the  melody  of  narration  is  never 
interrupted. 

But  the  reading  of  “Loma  Doone”  calls  to  my 
mind,  and  very  vividly,  an  original  artistic  principle 
of  which  English  romance  writers  are  either  strangely 
ignorant  or  neglectful,  viz.,  that  the  sublimation  of 
the  dramatis  personce  and  the  deeds  in  which  they 
are  involved  must  correspond,  and  their  relationship 
should  remain  unimpaired.  Turner’s  “Carthage”  is 
nature  transposed  and  wonderfully  modified.  Some 
of  the  passages  of  light  and  shade  there — those  of  the 
balustrade — are  fugues,  and  there  his  art  is  allied  to 
Bach  in  sonority  and  beautiful  combination.  Turner 
knew  that  a branch  hung  across  the  sun  looked  at 
separately  was  black,  but  he  painted  it  light  to  main- 
tain the  equipoise  of  atmosphere.  In  the  novel  the 
characters  are  the  voice,  the  deeds  are  the  orchestra. 
But  the  English  novelist  takes  ’Arry  and  ’Arriet,  and 
without  question  allows  them  to  achieve  deeds;  nor 


174  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


does  he  hesitate  to  pass  them  into  the  realms  of  the 
supernatural.  Such  violation  of  the  first  principles 
of  narration  is  never  to  be  met  with  in  the  elder 
writers.  Achilles  stands  as  tall  as  Troy,  Merlin  is  as 
old  and  as  wise  as  the  world.  Rhythm  and  poetical  ex- 
pression are  essential  attributes  of  dramatic  genius, 
but  the  original  sign  of  race  and  mission  is  an  in- 
stinctive modulation  of  man  with  the  deeds  he  at- 
tempts or  achieves.  The  man  and  the  deed  must  be 
cognate  and  equal,  and  the  melodic  balance  and  blend- 
ing are  what  first  separate  Homer  and  Hugo  from 
the  fabricators  of  singular  adventures.  In  Scott 
leather  jerkins,  swords,  horses,  mountains,  and  castles 
harmonise  completely  and  fully  with  food,  fighting, 
words,  and  vision  of  life;  the  chords  are  simple  as 
Handel’s,  but  they  are  as  perfect.  Lytton’s  work,  al- 
though as  vulgar  as  Verdi’s  is,  in  much  the  same 
fashion,  sustained  by  a natural  sense  of  formal  har- 
mony; but  all  that  follows  is  decadent, — an  admix- 
ture of  romance  and  realism,  the  exaggerations  of 
Hugo  and  the  homeliness  of  Trollope;  a litter  of  an- 
cient elements  in  a state  of  decomposition. 

The  spiritual  analysis  of  Balzac  equals  the  trium- 
phant imagination  of  Shakespeare,  and  by  different 
roads  they  reach  the  same  height  of  tragic  awe,  but 
when  improbability,  which  in  these  days  doe$  duty 
for  imagination,  is  mixed  with  the  familiar  aspects 
of  life,  the  result  is  inchoate  and  rhythmless  folly, 
I mean  the  regular  and  inevitable  alternation  and 
combination  of  pa  and  ma,  and  dear  Annie  who  lives 
at  Olapham,  with  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  and  the 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  175 


secret  of  eternal  life;  this  violation  of  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  art — that  is  to  say,  of  the  rhythm  of  feeling 
and  proportion,  is  not  possible  in  France.  I ask  the 
reader  to  recall  what  was  said  on  the  subject  of  the 
Club,  Tavern,  and  Villa.  We  have  a surplus  popula- 
tion of  more  than  two  million  women,  the  tradition 
that  chastity  is  woman’s  only  virtue  still  survives,  the 
Tavern  and  its  adjunct  Bohemianism  have  been  sup- 
pressed, and  the  Villa  is  omnipotent  and  omnipres- 
ent ; tennis-playing,  church  on  Sundays,  and  suburban 
hops  engender  a craving  for  excitement  for  the  far 
away,  for  the  unknown ; but  the  Villa  with  its  tennis- 
playing, church  on  Sundays,  and  suburban  hops  will 
not  surrender  its  own  existence,  it  must  take  a part 
in  the  heroic  deeds  that  happen  in  the  Mountains  of 
the  Moon ; it  will  have  heroism  in  its  own  pint  pot. 
Achilles  and  Merlin  must  be  replaced  by  Uncle  Jim 
and  an  undergraduate;  and  so  the  Villa  is  the  author 
of  “Rider  Haggard,”  “Hugh  Conway,”  “Robert 
Buchanan,”  and  the  author  of  “The  House  on  the 
Marsh.” 

I read  two  books  by  Mr.  Christie  Murray, 
“Joseph's  Coat”  and  “Rainbow  Gold,”  and  one  by 
Messrs.  Besant  and  Rice, — “The  Seamy  Side.”  It  is 
difficult  to  criticise  such  work,  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  to  say  but  that  it  is  as  suited  to  the  mental 
needs  of  the  Villa  as  the  baker’s  loaves  and  the  butch- 
er’s rounds  of  beef  are  to  the  physical.  I do  not 
think  that  any  such  literature  is  found  in  any  other 
country.  In  France  some  three  or  four  men  produce 
works  of  art,  the  rest  of  the  fiction  of  the  country  is 


176  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


unknown  to  men  of  letters.  But  “Rainbow  Gold,” 
I take  the  best  of  the  three,  is  not  bad  as  a second- 
rate  French  novel  is  bad;  it  is  excellent  as  all  that 
is  straightforward  is  excellent;  and  it  is  surprising 
to  find  that  work  can  be  so  good,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  devoid  of  artistic  charm.  That  such  a thing 
should  be  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  the  Villa. 

I have  heard  that  Mr.  Besant  is  an  artist  in  the 
“Chaplain  of  the  Fleet”  and  other  novels,  but  this  is 
not  possible.  The  artist  shows  what  he  is  going  to 
do  the  moment  he  puts  pen  to  paper,  or  brush  to 
canvas ; he  improves  on  his  first  attempts,  that  is  all ; 
and  I found  “The  Seamy  Side”  so  very  common, 
that  I cannot  believe  for  a moment  that  its  author 
or  authors  could  write  a line  that  would  interest  me. 

Mr.  Robert  Buchanan  is  a type  of  artist  that  every 
age  produces  unfailingly:  Catulle  Mendes  is  his 
counterpart  in  France, — but  the  pallid  Portuguese 
Jew  with  his  Christ-like  face,  and  his  fascinating 
fervour  is  more  interesting  than  the  spectacled 
Scotchman.  Both  began  with  volumes  of  excellent 
but  characterless  verse,  and  loud  outcries  about  the 
dignity  of  art,  and  both  have — well  . . . Mr.  Robert 
Buchanan  has  collaborated  with  Gus  Harris,  and 
written  the  programme  poetry  for  the  Vaudeville 
Theatre;  he  has  written  a novel,  the  less  said  about 
which  the  better — he  has  attacked  men  whose  shoe' 
strings  he  is  not  fit  to  tie,  and  having  failed  to  injure 
them,  he  retracted  all  he  said,  and  launched  forth 
into  slimy  benedictions.  He  took  Fielding’s  master- 
piece, degraded  it,  and  debased  it;  he  wrote  to  the 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  177 


papers  that  Fielding  was  a genius  in  spite  of  his 
coarseness,  thereby  inferring  that  he  was  a much 
greater  genius  since  he  had  sojourned  in  this  Scotch 
house  of  literary  ill-fame.  Clarville,  the  author  of 
“Madame  Angot,”  transformed  Madame  Marneff  into 
a virtuous  woman ; but  he  did  not  write  to  the  papers 
to  say  that  Balzac  owed  him  a debt  of  gratitude  on 
that  account. 

The  star  of  Miss  Braddon  has  finally  set  in  the 
obscure  regions  of  servantgalism ; Ouida  and  Rhoda 
Broughton  continue  to  rewrite  the  books  they  wrote 
ten  years  ago;  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton  I have  not  read. 
The  “Story  of  an  African  Farm”  was  pressed  upon 
me.  I found  it  sincere  and  youthful,  disjointed  but 
well-written ; descriptions  of  sand-hills  and  ostriches 
sandwiched  with  doubts  concerning  a future  state, 
and  convictions  regarding  the  moral  and  physical 
superiority  of  women : but  of  art  nothing ; that  is  to 
say,  art  as  I understand  it, — rhythmical  sequence  of 
events  described  with  rhythmical  sequence  of  phrase. 

I read  the  “Story  of  Elizabeth”  by  Miss  Thack- 
eray. It  came  upon  me  with  all  the  fresh  and  fair 
naturalness  of  a garden  full  of  lilacs  and  blue  sky, 
and  I thought  of  Hardy,  Blackmore,  Murray,  and 
Besant  as  of  great  warehouses  where  everything  might 
be  had,  and  even  if  the  article  required  were  not  in 
stock  it  could  be  supplied  in  a few  days  at  latest.  The 
exquisite  little  descriptions,  full  of  air,  colour,  light* 
ness,  grace;  the  French  life  seen  with  such  sweet 
English  eyes;  the  sweet  little  descriptions  all  so 
gently  evocative.  “What  a tranquil  little  kitchen  it 


178  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


was,  with  a glimpse  of  the  courtyard  outside,  and  the 
cocks  and  hens,  and  the  poplar  trees  waving  in  the 
sunshine,  and  the  old  woman  sitting  in  her  white  cap 
busy  at  her  homely  work.”  Into  many  wearisome 
pages  these  simple  lines  have  since  been  expanded, 
without  affecting  the  beauty  of  the  original.  “Will 
Dampier  turned  his  broad  back  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  There  was  a moment’s  silence.  They 
could  hear  the  tinkling  of  bells,  the  whistling  of  the 
sea,  the  voices  of  the  men  calling  to  each  other  in 
the  port,  the  sunshine  streamed  in;  Elly  was  stand- 
ing in  it,  and  seemed  gilt  with  a golden  background. 
She  ought  to  have  held  a palm  in  her  hand,  poor  little 
martyr!”  There  is  sweet  wisdom  in  this  book, 
wisdom  that  is  eternal,  being  simple;  and  near  may 
not  come  the  ugliness  of  positivism,  nor  the  horror  of 
pessimism,  nor  the  profound  greyness  of  Hegelism, 
but  merely  the  genial  love  and  reverence  of  a beau- 
tiful-minded woman. 

Such  charms  as  these  necessitate  certain  defects,  I 
should  say  limitations.  Vital  creation  of  character  is 
not  possible  to  Miss  Thackeray,  but  I do  not  rail 
against  beautiful  water-colour  indications  of  bal- 
conies, vases,  gardens,  fields,  and  harvesters  because 
they  have  not  the  fervid  glow  and  passionate  force  of 
Titian’s  Ariadne;  Miss  Thackeray  cannot  give  us  a 
Maggie  Tulliver,  and  all  the  many  profound  modula- 
tions of  that  Beethoven-like  countryside:  the  pine 
wood  and  the  cripple;  this  aunt’s  linen  presses,  and 
that  one’s  economies ; the  boy  going  forth  to  conquer 
the  world,  the  girl  remaining  at  home  to  conquer  her- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  179 


self ; the  mighty  river  holding  the  fate  of  all,  playing 
and  dallying  with  it  for  a while,  and  bearing  it  on  at 
last  to  final  and  magnificent  extinction.  That  sense 
of  the  inevitable  which  had  the  Greek  dramatists 
wholly,  which  had  George  Eliot  sufficiently,  that 
rhythmical  progression  of  events,  rhythm  and  in- 
evitableness (two  words  for  one  and  the  same  thing) 
is  not  there.  Elly’s  golden  head,  the  back-ground  of 
austere  French  Protestants,  is  sketched  with  a flow- 
ing water-colour  brush,  I do  not  know  if  it  is  true, 
but  true  or  false  in  reality,  it  is  true  in  art.  But 
the  jarring  dissonance  of  her  marriage  is  inadmissi- 
ble ; it  cannot  be  led  up  to  by  chords  no  matter  how 
ingenious,  the  passage,  the  attempts  from  one  key  to 
the  other,  is  impossible ; the  true  end  is  the  ruin,  by 
death  or  lingering  life,  of  Elly  and  the  remorse  of 
the  mother. 

One  of  the  few  writers  of  fiction  who  seems  to  me 
to  possess  an  ear  for  the  music  of  events  is  Miss  Mar- 
garet Veley.  Her  first  novel,  “For  Percival,”  al- 
though diffuse,  although  it  occasionally  flowed  into  by- 
channels  and  lingered  in  stagnating  pools,  was  in- 
formed and  held  together,  even  at  ends  the  most 
twisted  and  broken,  by  that  sense  of  rhythmic  pro- 
gression which  is  so  dear  to  me,  and  which  was  after- 
wards so  splendidly  developed  in  “Damocles.”  Pale, 
painted  with  grey  and  opaline  tints  of  morning  passe* 
the  grand  figure  of  Rachel  Conway,  a victim  chosen 
for  her  beauty,  and  crowned  with  flowers  of  sacrifice. 
She  has  not  forgotten  the  face  of  the  maniac,  and 
it  comes  back  to  her  in  its  awful  lines  and  lights  when 


180  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


she  finds  herself  rich  and  loved  by  the  man  whom 
she  loves.  The  catastrophe  is  a double  one.  Now 
she  knows  she  is  accursed,  and  that  her  duty  is  to 
trample  out  her  love.  Unborn  generations  cry  to  her. 
The  wrath  and  the  lamentation  of  the  chorus  of  the 
Greek  singer,  the  intoning  voices  of  the  next-of-kin, 
the  pathetic  responses  of  voices  far  in  the  depths  of 
ante-natal  night,  these  the  modern  novelist,  playing 
on  an  inferior  instrument,  may  suggest,  but  cannot 
give:  but  here  the  suggestion  is  so  perfect  that  we 
cease  to  yearn  for  the  real  music,  as,  reading  from 
a score,  we  are  satisfied  with  the  flute  and  bassoons 
that  play  so  faultlessly  in  soundless  dots. 

There  is  neither  hesitation  nor  doubt.  Rachel  Con- 
way puts  her  dreams  away,  she  will  henceforth  walk 
in  a sad  and  shady  path;  her  interests  are  centred 
in  the  child  of  the  man  she  loves,  and  as  she  looks 
for  a last  time  on  the  cloud  of  trees,  glorious  and 
waving  green  in  the  sunset  that  encircles  her  home, 
her  sorrow  swells  once  again  to  passion,  and,  we 
know,  for  the  last  time. 

The  mechanical  construction  of  M.  Scribe  I had 
learnt  from  M.  Duval;  the  naturalistic  school  had 
taught  me  to  scorn  tricks,  and  to  rely  on  the  action 
of  the  sentiments  rather  than  on  extraneous  aid  for 
the  bringing  about  of  a denouement ; and  I thought 
of  all  this  as  I read  “Disenchantment”  by  Miss  Mabel 
Robinson,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  knowledge 
would  prove  valuable  when  my  turn  came  to  write  a 
novel,  for  the  mise  en  place,  the  setting  forth  of  this 
story,  seemed  to  me  so  loose,  that  much  of  its  strength 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  181 


had  dribbled  away  before  it  had  rightly  begun.  But 
the  figure  of  the  Irish  politician  I accept  without  re- 
serve. It  seems  to  me  grand  and  mighty  in  its  sor- 
rowfulness. The  tall,  dark-eyed,  beautiful  Celt, 
attainted  in  blood  and  brain  by  generations  of  famine 
and  drink,  alternating  with  the  fervid  sensuousness 
of  the  girl,  her  Saxon  sense  of  right  alternating  with 
the  Celt’s  hereditary  sense  of  revenge,  his  dreamy 
patriotism,  his  facile  platitudes,  his  acceptance  of 
literature  as  a sort  of  bread  basket,  his  knowledge 
that  he  is  not  great  nor  strong,  and  can  do  nothing 
in  the  world  but  love  his  country;  and  as  he  passes 
his  thirtieth  year  the  waxing  strong  of  the  disease, 
nervous  disease  complex  and  torturous ; to  him  drink 
is  at  once  life  and  death ; an  article  is  bread,  and  to 
calm  him  and  collect  what  remains  of  weak,  scat- 
tered thought,  he  must  drink.  The  woman  cannot 
understand  that  caste  and  race  separate  them;  and 
the  damp  air  of  spent  desire,  and  the  grey  and  fall- 
ing leaves  of  her  illusions  fill  her  life’s  sky.  Nor  is 
there  any  hope  for  her  until  the  husband  unties  the 
awful  knot  by  suicide. 

I will  state  frankly  that  Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson 
never  wrote  a line  that  failed  to  delight  me;  but  he 
never  wrote  a book.  You  arrive  at  a strangely  just 
estimate  of  a writer’s  worth  by  the  mere  question: 
“What  is  he  the  author  of  ?”  for  every  writer  whose 
work  is  destined  to  live  is  the  author  of  one  book 
that  outshines  the  other,  and,  in  popular  imagination, 
epitomises  his  talent  and  position.  What  is  Shake- 
speare the  author  of  ? What  is  Milton  the  author  of  ? 


182  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


What  is  Fielding  the  author  of  ? What  is  Byron  the 
author  of?  What  is  Carlyle  the  author  of?  What 
is  Thackeray  the  author  of  ? What  is  Zola  the  author 
of?  What  is  Mr.  Swinburne  the  author  of?  Mr. 
Stevenson  is  the  author  of  shall  I say,  “Treasure 
Island/’  or  what? 

I think  of  Mr.  Stevenson  as  a consumptive  youth 
weaving  garlands  of  sad  flowers  with  pale,  weak 
hands,  or  leaning  to  a large  plate-glass  window,  and 
scratching  thereon  exquisite  profiles  with  a diamond 
pencil. 

I do  not  care  to  speak  of  great  ideas,  for  I am 
unable  to  see  how  an  idea  can  exist,  at  all  events  can 
be  great  out  of  language ; an  allusion  to  Mr.  Steven- 
son’s verbal  expression  will  perhaps  make  my  mean- 
ing clear.  His  periods  are  fresh  and  bright,  rhyth- 
mical in  sound,  and  perfect  realizations  of  their 
sense;  in  reading  you  often  think  that  never  before 
was  such  definiteness  united  to  such  poetry  of  expres- 
sion ; every  page  and  every  sentence  rings  of  its  indi- 
viduality. Mr.  Stevenson’s  style  is  over  smart,  well- 
dressed,  shall  I say,  like  a young  man  walking  in  the 
Burlington  Arcade?  Yes,  I will  say  so,  but,  I will 
add,  the  most  gentlemanly  young  man  that  ever 
walked  in  the  Burlington.  Mr.  Stevenson  is  com- 
petent to  understand  any  thought  that  might  be  pre- 
sented to  him,  but  if  he  were  to  use  it,  it  would 
instantly  become  neat,  sharp,  ornamental,  light,  and 
graceful;  and  it  would  lose  all  its  original  richness 
and  harmonj.  It  is  not  Mr.  Stevenson’s  brain  that 
prevents  him  from  being  a thinker,  but  his  style. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  183 


Another  thing  that  strikes  me  in  thinking  of  Ste- 
venson (I  pass  over  his  direct  indebtedness  to  Edgar 
Poe,  and  his  constant  appropriation  of  his  methods  ), 
is  the  unsuitableness  of  the  special  characteristics  of 
his  talent  to  the  age  he  lives  in.  He  wastes  in  his 
limitations,  and  his  talent  is  vented  in  prettinesses  of 
style.  In  speaking  of  Mr.  Henry  J ames,  I said  that, 
although  he  had  conceded  much  to  the  foolish,  false, 
and  hypocritical  taste  of  the  time,  the  concessions  he 
made  had  in  little  or  nothing  impaired  his  talent. 
The  very  opposite  seems  to  me  the  case  with  Mr. 
Stevenson.  For  if  any  man  living  in  this  end  of  the 
century  needed  freedom  of  expression  for  the  dis- 
tinct development  of  his  genius,  that  man  is  R.  L. 
Stevenson.  He  who  runs  may  read,  and  he  with  any 
knowledge  of  literature  will,  before  I have  written 
the  words,  have  imagined  Mr.  Stevenson  writing  in 
the  age  of  Elizabeth  or  Anne. 

Turn  your  platitudes  prettily,  but  write  no  word 
that  could  offend  the  chaste  mind  of  the  young  girl 
who  has  spent  her  morning  reading  the  Colin  Camp- 
bell divorce  case;  so  says  the  age  we  live  in.  The 
penny  paper  that  may  be  bought  everywhere,  that 
is  allowed  to  lie  on  every  table,  prints  seven  or  eight 
columns  of  filth,  for  no  reason  except  that  the  public 
likes  to  read  filth ; the  poet  and  novelist  must  emascu- 
late and  destroy  their  work  because.  . . . Who  shall 
come  forward  and  make  answer?  Oh,  vile,  filthy, 
and  hypocritical  century,  I at  least  scorn  you. 

But  this  is  not  a course  of  literature  but  the  story 
of  the  artistic  development  of  me,  Edward  Dayne; 


184  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


so  I will  tarry  no  longer  with  mere  criticism,  but  go 
direct  to  the  book  to  which  I owe  the  last  temple  in 
my  soul — “Marius  the  Epicurean.”  Well  I remem- 
ber when  I read  the  opening  lines,  and  how  they  came 
upon  me  sweetly  as  the  flowing  breath  of  a bright 
spring.  I knew  that  I was  awakened  a fourth  time, 
that  a fourth  vision  of  life  was  to  be  given  to  me. 
Shelley  had  revealed  to  me  the  unimagined  skies 
where  the  spirit  sings  of  light  and  grace ; Gautier  had 
shown  me  how  extravagantly  beautiful  is  the  visible 
world  and  how  divine  is  the  rage  of  the  flesh;  and 
with  Balzac  I had  descended  circle  by  circle  into  the 
nether  world  of  the  soul,  and  watched  its  afflictions. 
Then  there  were  minor  awakenings.  Zola  had  en- 
chanted me  with  decoration  and  inebriated  me  with 
theory;  Flaubert  had  astonished  with  the  wonderful 
delicacy  and  subtlety  of  his  workmanship;  Gon- 
court’s  brilliant  adjectival  effects  had  captivated  me 
for  a time,  but  all  these  impulses  were  crumbling  into 
dust,  these  aspirations  were  etiolated,  sickly  as  faces 
grown  old  in  gaslight. 

I had  not  thought  of  the  simple  and  unaffected  joy 
of  the  heart  of  natural  things ; the  colour  of  the  open 
air,  the  many  forms  of  the  country,  the  birds  flying, 
— that  one  making  for  the  sea ; the  abandoned  boat, 
the  dwarf  roses  and  the  wild  lavender;  nor  had  I 
thought  of  the  beauty  of  mildness  in  life,  and  how 
by  a certain  avoidance  of  the  wilfully  passionate,  and 
the  surely  ugly,  we  may  secure  an  aspect  of  temporal 
life  which  is  abiding  and  soul-sufficing.  A new  dawn 
was  in  my  brain,  fresh  and  fair,  full  of  wide  temples 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  185 


and  studious  hours,  and  the  lurking  fragrance  of  in- 
cense ; that  such  a vision  of  life  was  possible  I had  no 
suspicion,  and  it  came  upon  me  almost  with  the  same 
strength,  almost  as  intensely,  as  that  divine  song  of 
the  flesh, — Mademoiselle  de  Maupin. 

Certainly,  in  my  mind,  these  books  will  be  always 
intimately  associated;  and  when  a few  adventitious 
points  of  difference  be  forgotten,  it  is  interesting  to 
note  how  firm  is  the  alliance,  and  how  cognate  and 
co-equal  the  sympathies  on  which  it  is  based  ; the 
same  glad  worship  of  the  visible  world,  and  the  same 
incurable  belief  that  the  beauty  of  material  things  is 
sufficient  for  all  the  needs  of  life.  Mr.  Pater  can 
join  hands  with  Gautier  in  saying — je  trouve  la  terre 
aussi  belle  que  le  ciel , et  je  pense  que  la  correction 
de  la  forme  est  la  vertu.  And  I too  join  issue;  I too 
love  the  great  pagan  world,  its  bloodshed,  its  slaves, 
its  injustice,  its  loathing  of  all  that  is  feeble. 

But  “Marius  the  Epicurean”  was  more  to  me  than 
a mere  emotional  influence,  precious  and  rare  though 
that  may  be,  for  this  book  was  the  first  in  English 
prose  I had  come  across  that  procured  for  me  any 
genuine  pleasure  in  the  language  itself,  in  the  com- 
bination of  words  for  silver  or  gold  chime,  and  un- 
conventional cadence,  and  for  all  those  lurking  half- 
meanings, and  that  evanescent  suggestion,  like  the 
odour  of  dead  roses,  that  words  retain  to  the  last  of 
other  times  and  elder  usage.  Until  I read  “Marius” 
the  English  language  (English  prose)  was  to  me 
what  French  must  be  to  the  majority  of  English 
readers.  I read  for  the  sense  and  that  was  all;  th* 


186  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


language  itself  seemed  to  me  coarse  and  plain,  and 
awoke  in  me  neither  aesthetic  emotion  nor  even  inter- 
est. “Marius”  was  the  stepping-stone  that  carried  me 
across  the  channel  into  the  genius  of  my  own  tongue. 
The  translation  was  not  too  abrupt;  I found  a con- 
stant and  careful  invocation  of  meaning  that  was  a 
little  aside  of  the  common  comprehension,  and  also 
a sweet  depravity  of  ear  for  unexpected  falls  of 
phrase,  and  of  eye  for  the  less  observed  depths  of 
colours,  which  although  new  was  a sort  of  sequel  to 
the  education  I had  chosen,  and  a continuance  of 
it  in  foreign,  but  not  wholly  unfamiliar  medium,  and 
having  saturated  myself  with  Pater,  the  passage  to 
De  Quincey  was  easy.  He,  too,  was  a Latin  in 
manner  and  in  temper  of  mind;  but  he  was  truly 
English,  and  through  him  I passed  to  the  study  of 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  the  real  literature  of  m y 
race,  and  washed  myself  clean. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THOUGHTS  IN  A STRAND  DODGING 

AWFUL  Emma  has  undressed  and  put  the  last 
child  away — stowed  the  last  child  away  in 
some  mysterious  and  unapproachable  comer  that 
none  knows  of  but  she;  the  fat  landlady  has  ceased 
to  loiter  about  my  door,  has  ceased  to  pester  me  with 
offers  of  brandy  and  water,  tea  and  toast,  the  induce- 
ments that  occur  to  her  landlady’s  mind ; the  actress 
from  the  Savoy  has  ceased  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
street  with  the  young  man  who  accompanied  her 
home  from  the  theatre;  she  has  ceased  to  linger  on 
the  doorstep  talking  to  him,  her  key  has  grated  in 
the  lock,  she  has  come  upstairs,  we  have  had  our  usual 
midnight  conversation  on  the  landing,  she  has' told 
me  her  latest  hopes  of  obtaining  a part,  and  of  the 
husband  whom  she  was  obliged  to  leave ; we  have  bid 
each  other  good-night,  she  has  gone  up  the  creaky 
staircase.  I have  returned  to  my  room,  littered  with 
MS.  and  queer  publications;  the  night  is  hot  and 
heavy,  but  now  a wind  is  blowing  from  the  river.  I 
am  listless  and  lonely.  ...  I open  a book,  the  first 
book  that  comes  to  hand  ...  it  is  Le  Journal  des 
Qoncourts,  p.  358,  the  end  of  a chapter: — 

“It  is  really  curious  that  it  should  he  the  four  men 
187 


188  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


the  most  free  from  all  taint  of  handicraft  and  all  hose 
commercialism,  the  four  pens  the  most  entirely  de- 
voted to  art,  that  were  arraigned  before  the  public 
prosecutor : Baudelaire,  Flaubert,  and  ourselves ” 
Yes  it  is  indeed  curious,  and  I will  not  spoil  the 
piquancy  of  the  moral  by  a comment.  No  comment 
would  help  those  to  see  who  have  eyes  to  see,  no  com- 
ment would  give  sight  to  the  hopelessly  blind.  Gon- 
court’s  statement  is  eloquent  and  suggestive  enough ; 
I leave  it  a naked  simple  truth ; but  I would  put  by 
its  side  another  naked  simple  truth.  This:  If  in 
England  the  public  prosecutor  does  not  seek  to  over- 
ride literature,  the  means  of  tyranny  are  not  want- 
ing, whether  they  be  the  tittle-tattle  of  the  nursery  or 
the  lady’s  drawing-room,  or  the  shameless  combina- 
tions entered  into  by  librarians.  ...  In  England  as  in 
France  those  who  loved  literature  the  most  purely, 
who  were  the  least  mercenary  in  their  love,  were 
marked  out  for  persecution,  and  all  three  were  driven 
into  exile.  Byron,  Shelley,  and  George  Moore;  and 
Swinburne,  he,  too,  who  loved  literature  for  its  own 
sake,  was  forced,  amid  cries  of  indignation  and 
horror,  to  withdraw  his  book  from  the  reach  of  a 
public  that  was  rooting  then  amid  the  garbage  of  the 
Yelverton  divorce  case.  I think  of  these  facts  and 
think  of  Baudelaire’s  prose  poem,  that  poem  in  which 
he  tells  how  a dog  will  run  away  howling  if  you  hold 
to  him  a bottle  of  choice  scent,  but  if  you  offer  him 
some  putrid  morsel  picked  out  of  some  gutter  hole, 
he  will  sniff  round  it  joyfully,  and  will  seek  to  lick 
your  hand  for  gratitude.  Baudelaire  compared  that 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  189 


dog  to  the  public.  Baudelaire  was  wrong : that  dog 
was  a . 


When  I read  Balzac’s  stories  of  Vautrin  and 
Lucien  de  Rubempre,  I often  think  of  Hadrian  and 
the  Antinous.  I wonder  if  Balzac  did  dream  of  trans- 
posing the  Roman  Emperor  and  his  favourite  into 
modern  life.  It  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  Balzac 
would  think  of.  No  critic  has  ever  noticed  this. 


Sometimes,  at  night,  when  all  is  still,  and  I look 
out  on  that  desolate  river,  I think  I shall  go  mad  with 
grief,  with  wild  regret  for  my  beautiful  appartement 
in  Rue  de  la  Tour  des  Dames . How  different  is  the 
present  to  the  past ! I hate  with  my  whole  soul  this 
London  lodging,  and  all  that  concerns  it — Emma, 
and  eggs  and  bacon,  the  fat  lascivious  landlady  and 
her  lascivious  daughter ; I am  sick  of  the  sentimental 
actress  who  lives  upstairs,  I swear  I will  never  go 
out  to  talk  to  her  on  the  landing  again.  Then  there 
is  failure — I can  do  nothing,  nothing;  my  novel  I 
know  is  worthless;  my  life  is  a weak  leaf,  it  will 
flutter  out  of  sight  presently.  I am  sick  of  every- 
thing;  I wish  I were  hack  in  Paris;  I am  sick  of 
reading ; I have  nothing  to  read.  Flaubert  bores  me. 
What  nonsense  has  been  talked  about  him ! Imper- 
sonal! Nonsense,  he  is  the  most  personal  writer  I 
know.  That  odious  pessimism ! How  sick  I am  of 
it,  it  never  ceases,  it  is  lugged  in  a tout  dropos,  and 


190  CONFESSIONS  OF  A FOUNG  MaN 


the  little  lyrical  phrase  with  which  he  winds  up  eVvOy 
paragraph,  how  boring  it  is.  Happily,  I have  “A 
Rebours”  to  read,  that  prodigious  book,  that  beauti- 
ful mosaic.  Huysmans  is  quite  right,  ideas  are  well 
enough  until  you  are  twenty,  afterwards  only  words 
are  bearable  ...  a new  idea,  what  can  be  more  insipid 
— fit  for  members  of  parliament.  . . . Shall  I go  to 
bed?  No.  . . . I wish  I had  a volume  of  Verlaine, 
or  something  of  Mallarme’s  to  read — Mallarme  for 
preference.  I remember  Huysmans  speaks  of  Mal- 
larme in  “A  Rebours.”  In  hours  like  these  a page 
of  Huysmans  is  as  a dose  of  opium,  a glass  of  some 
exquisite  and  powerful  liqueur. 

“The  decadence  of  a literature  irreparably  at- 
tacked in  its  organism,  weakened  by  the  age  of  ideas, 
overworn  by  the  excess  of  syntax,  sensible  only  of  the 
curiosity  which  fevers  sick  people,  but  nevertheless 
hastening  to  explain  everything  in  its  decline,  de- 
sirous of  repairing  all  the  omissions  of  its  youth,  to 
bequeath  all  the  most  subtle  souvenirs  of  its  suffering 
on  its  deathbed,  is  incarnate  in  Mallarme  in  most 
consummate  and  absolute  fashion.  . . . 

( “The  poem  in  prose  is  the  form,  above  all  others, 
they  prefer;  handled  by  an  alchemist  of  genius,  it 
should  contain  in  a state  of  meat  the  entire  strength 
of  the  novel,  the  long  analysis  and  the  superfluous 
description  of  which  it  suppresses  . . . the  adjective 
placed  in  such  an  ingenious  and  definite  way,  that 
it  could  not  be  legally  dispossessed  of  its  place,  would 
open  up  such  perspectives,  that  the  reader  would 
dream  for  whole  weeks  together  on  its  meaning  at 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  191 


once  precise  and  multiple,  affirm  the  present,  recon- 
struct the  past,  divine  the  future  of  the  souls  of  the 
characters  revealed  by  the  light  of  the  unique  epithet. 
The  novel  thus  understood,  thus  condensed  into  one 
or  two  pages,  would  he  a communion  of  thought  be- 
tween a magical  writer  and  an  ideal  reader,  a spir- 
itual collaboration  by  consent  between  ten  superior 
persons  scattered  through  the  universe,  a delectation 
offered  to  the  most  refined,  and  accessible  only  to 
them.” 

Huysmans  goes  to  my  soul  like  a gold  ornament 
of  Byzantine  workmanship ; there  is  in  his  style  the 
yearning  charm  of  arches,  a sense  of  ritual,  the  pas- 
sion of  the  mural,  of  the  window.  Ah!  in  this 
hour  of  weariness  for  one  of  Mallarme’s  prose  poems ! 
Stay,  I remember  I have  some  numbers  of  La  Vogue . 
One  of  the  numbers  contains,  I know,  “Forgotten 
Pages;”  I will  translate  word  for  word,  preserving 
the  very  rhythm,  one  or  two  of  these  miniature  mar- 
vels of  diction: — 


FORGOTTEN  PAGES 

“Since  Maria  left  me  to  go  to  another  star — which  ? 
Orion,  Altair,  or  thou,  green  Venus?  I have  always 
cherished  solitude.  What  long  days  I have  passed 
alone  with  my  cat.  By  alone,  I mean  without  a ma- 
terial being,  and  my  cat  is  a mystical  companion — 
a spirit.  I can,  therefore,  say  that  I have  passed 
whole  days  alone  with  my  cat,  and,  alone  with  one  of 
the  last  authors  of  the  Latin  decadence ; for  since  tha^ 


192  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


white  creature  is  no  more,  strangely  and  singularly  I 
have  loved  all  that  the  word  fall  expresses.  In  such 
wise  that  my  favourite  season  of  the  year  is  the  last 
weary  days  of  summer,  which  immediately  precede 
autumn,  and  the  hour  I choose  to  walk  in  is  when 
the  sun  rests  before  disappearing,  with  rays  of  yellow 
copper  on  the  grey  walls  and  red  copper  on  the  tiles. 
In  the  same  way  the  literature  that  my  soul  demands 
— a sad  voluptuousness — is  the  dying  poetry  of  the 
last  moments  of  Rome,  but  before  it  has  breathed  at 
all  the  rejuvenating  approach  of  the  barbarians,  or 
has  begun  to  stammer  the  infantile  Latin  of  the  first 
Christian  poetry. 

“I  was  reading,  therefore,  one  of' those  dear  poems 
(whose  paint  has  more  charm  for  me  than  the  blush 
of  youth),  had  plunged  one  hand  into  the  fur  of  the 
pure  animal,  when  a barrel  organ  sang  languidly  and 
melancholy  beneath  my  window.  It  played  in  the 
great  alley  of  poplars,  whose  leaves  appear  to  me 
yellow,  even  in  the  spring-tide,  since  Maria  passed 
there  with  the  tall  candles  for  the  last  time.  The 
instrument  is  the  saddest,  yes,  truly ; the  piano  scin- 
tillates, the  violin  opens  the  torn  soul  to  the  light,  but 
the  barrel-organ,  in  the  twilight  of  remembrance, 
made  me  dream  despairingly.  Now  it  murmurs  an 
air  joyously  vulgar  which  awakens  joy  in  the  heart 
of  the  suburbs,  an  air  old-fashioned  and  common- 
place. Why  do  its  flourishes  go  to  my  soul,  and  make 
me  weep  like  a romantic  ballad  ? I listen,  imbibing 
it  slowly,  and  I do  not  throw  a penny  out  of  the  win- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  193 


dow  for  fear  of  moving  from  my  place,  and  seeing 
that  the  instrument  is  not  singing  itself. 

II 

“The  old  Saxony  clock,  which  is  slow,  and  which 
strikes  thirteen  amid  its  flowers  and  gods,  to  whom 
did  it  -belong  ? Thinkest  that  it  came  from  Saxony 
by  the  mail  coaches  of  old  time  ? 

“(Singular  shadows  hang  about  the  worn-out 
panes.) 

“And  thy  Venetian  mirror,  deep  as  a cold  foun- 
tain in  its  banks  of  gilt  work ; what  is  reflected  there  ? 
Ah ! I am  sure  that  more  than  one  woman  bathed 
there  in  her  beauty’s  sin;  and,  perhaps,  if  I looked 
long  enough,  I should  see  a naked  phantom. 

“Wicked  one,  thou  often  sayest  wicked  things. 

“(I  see  the  spiders’  webs  above  the  lofty  win- 
dows.) 

“Our  wardrobe  is  very  old ; see  how  the  fire  reddens 
its  sad  panels!  the  weary  curtains  are  as  old,  and- the 
tapestry  on  the  arm-chairs  stripped  of  paint,  and  the 
old  engravings,  and  all  these  old  things.  Does  it 
not  seem  to  thee  that  even  these  blue  birds  are  dis- 
coloured by  time? 

“(Dream  not  of  the  spiders’  webs  that  tremble 
above  the  lofty  windows.) 

“Thou  lovest  all  that,  and  that  is  why  I live  by 
thee.  When  one  of  my  poems  appeared,  didst  thou 
not  desire,  my  sister,  whose  looks  are  full  of  yester- 
days, the  words,  the  grace  of  faded  things!  New 


194  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


objects  displease  thee;  thee  also  do  they  frighten  with 
their  loud  boldness,  and  thou  feelest  as  if  thou 
shouldest  use  them — a difficult  thing  indeed  to  do,  for 
thou  hast  no  taste  for  action. 

“Come,  close  thy  old  German  almanack  that  thou 
readest  with  attention,  though  it  appeared  more  than 
a hundred  years  ago,  and  the  Kings  it  announces  are 
all  dead,  and,  lying  on  this  antique  carpet,  my  head 
leaned  upon  thy  charitable  knees,  on  the  pale  robe, 
oh!  calm  child,  I will  speak  with  thee  for  hours; 
there  are  no  fields,  and  the  streets  are  empty,  I will 
speak  to  thee  of  our  furniture. 

“Thou  art  abstracted? 

“(The  spiders*  webs  are  shivering  above  the  lofty 
windows. )** 

To  argue  about  these  forgotten  pages  would  be 
futile.  We,  the  “ten  superior  persons  scattered 
through  the  universe**  think  these  prose  poems  the 
concrete  essence,  the  osmazome  of  literature,  the  es- 
sential oil  of  art,  others,  those  in  the  stalls,  will  judge 
them  to  be  the  aberrations  of  a refined  mind,  dis- 
torted with  hatred  of  the  commonplace;  the  pit  will 
immediately  declare  them  to  be  nonsense,  and  will 
return  with  satisfaction  to  the  last  leading  article  in 
the  daily  paper. 


“J’ai  fait  mes  adieux  a ma  mere  et  je  viens  pour 
vous  faire  les  miens  and  other  absurdities  by  Ponson 
du  Terrail  amused  us  many  a year  in  France,  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  195 


in  later  days  similar  bad  grammar  by  Georges  Obnet 
has  not  been  lost  upon  ns,  but  neither  Ponson  du 
Terrail  nor  Georges  Ohnet  sought  literary  suffrage, 
such  a thing  could  not  be  in  France,  but  in  England, 
Eider  Haggard,  whose  literary  atrocities  are  more 
atrocious  than  his  accounts  of  slaughter,  receives  the 
attention  of  leading  journals  and  writes  about  the 
revival  of  Eomance.  As  it  is  as  difficult  to  write  the 
worst  as  the  best  conceivable  sentence,  I take  this  one 
and  place  it  for  its  greater  glory  in  my  less  remark- 
able prose : — 

“As  we  gazed  on  the  beauties  thus  revealed  by 
Good , a spirit  of  emulation  filled  our  breasts,  and  we 
set  to  work  to  get  ourselves  up  as  well  as  we  could” 

A return  to  romance ! a return  to  the  animal,  say  I. 


One  thing  that  cannot  be  denied  to  the  realists : a 
constant  and  intense  desire  to  write  well,  to  write  ar- 
tistically. When  I think  of  what  they  have  done  in 
the  matter  of  the  use  of  words,  of  the  myriad  verbal 
effects  they  have  discovered,  of  the  thousand  forms 
of  composition  they  have  created,  how  they  have  re- 
modelled and  refashioned  the  language  in  their  un- 
tiring striving  for  intensity  of  expression  for  the  very 
osmazome  of  art,  I am  lost  in  ultimate  wonder  and 
admiration.  What  Hugo  did  for  French  verse* 
Flaubert,  Goncourt,  Zola,  and  Huysmans  have  done 
for  French  prose.  No  more  literary  school  than  the 
realists  has  ever  existed,  and  I do  not  except  even 
the  Elizabethans.  And  for  this  our  failures  are  more 


196  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 

interesting  than  the  vulgar  successes  of  our  op- 
ponents; for  when  we  fall  into  the  sterile  and  dis- 
torted, it  is  through  our  noble  and  incurable  hatred 
of  the  commonplace  of  all  that  is  popular. 

The  healthy  school  is  played  out  in  England;  all 
that  could  be  said  has  been  said;  the  successors  of 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  George  Eliot  have  no  ideal, 
and  consequently  no  language;  what  can  be  more 
pudding  than  the  language  of  Mr.  Hardy,  and  he  is 
typical  of  a dozen  other  writers,  Mr.  Besant,  Mr. 
Murray,  Mr.  Crawford  ? The  reason  of  this  heavi- 
ness of  thought  and  expression  is  that  the  avenues  are 
closed,  no  new  subject  matter  is  introduced,  the  lan- 
guage of  English  fiction  has  therefore  run  stagnant. 
But  if  the  realists  should  catch  favour  in  England 
the  English  tongue  may  be  saved  from  dissolution, 
for  with  the  new  subjects  they  would  introduce,  new 
forms  of  language  would  arise. 


I wonder  why  murder  is  considered  less  immoral 
than  fornication  in  literature  ? 


I feel  that  it  is  almost  impossible  for  the  same  ear 
to  seize  music  so  widely  differing  as  Milton’s  blank 
verse  and  Hugo’s  alexandrines,  and  it  seems  to  me 
especially  strange  that  critics  varying  in  degree  from 
Matthew  Arnold  to  the  obscure  paragraphist,  never 
seem  even  remotely  to  suspect,  when  they  passionately 
declare  that  English  blank  verse  is  a more  perfect 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  197 


and  complete  poetic  instrument  than  French  alexan- 
drines, that  the  imperfections  which  they  aver  are 
inherent  in  the  latter  exist  only  in  their  British  ears, 
impervious  to  a thousand  subtleties.  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold  does  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  regular  rhym- 
ing of  the  lines  is  monotonous.  To  my  ear  every  line 
i3  different;  there  is  as  much  variation  in  Charles 
V.’s  soliloquy  as  in  Hamlet’s ; but  be  this  as  it  may, 
it  is  not  unworthy  of  the  inmates  of  Hanwell  for 
critics  to  inveigh  against  la  rime  pleine,  that  which 
is  instinctive  in  the  language  as  accent  in  ours,  that 
which  is  the  very  genius  of  the  language. 

But  the  principle  has  been  exaggerated,  deformed, 
caricatured  until  some  of  the  most  modern  verse  is 
little  more  than  a series  of  puns — in  art  as  in  life 
the  charm  lies  in  the  unexpected,  and  it  is  annoy- 
ing to  know  that  the  only  thought  of  every  poet  is 
to  couple  les  murs  with  des  fruits  trop  mursy  and 
that  no  break  in  the  absolute  richness  of  sound  is  to 
be  hoped  for.  Gustave  Kahn  whose  beautiful  volume 
“Les  Palais  Nomades”  I have  read  with  the  keenest 
delight,  was  the  first  to  recognise  that  an  unfailing 
use  of  la  rime  pleine  might  become  cloying  and 
satiating,  and  that,  by  avoiding  it  sometimes  and 
markedly  and  maliciously  choosing  in  preference  a 
simple  assonance,  new  and  subtle  music  might  be 
produced. 

“Les  Palais  Nomades”  is  a really  beautiful  book, 
and  it  is  free  from  all  the  faults  that  make  an  abso- 
lute and  supreme  enjoyment  of  great  poetry  an  im- 
possibility. For  it  is  in  the  first  place  free  from 


198  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


those  pests  and  parasites  of  artistic  work — ideas.  Of 
all  literary  qualities  the  creation  of  ideas  is  the  most 
fugitive.  Think  of  the  fate  of  an  author  who  puts 
forward  a new  idea  to-morrow  in  a book,  in  a play, 
in  a poem.  The  new  idea  is  seized  upon,  it  becomes 
common  property,  it  is  dragged  through  newspaper 
articles,  magazine  articles,  through  books,  it  is  re- 
peated in  clubs,  drawing-rooms;  it  is  bandied  about 
the  corners  of  streets ; in  a week  it  is  wearisome,  in  a 
month  it  is  an  abomination.  Who  has  not  felt  a sick- 
ening feeling  come  over  him  when  he  hears  such 
phrases  as  “To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question”  ? 
Shakespeare  was  really  great  when  he  wrote  “Music 
to  hear,  why  hearest  thou  music  sadly  ?”  not  when  he 
wrote,  “The  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man.”  Could 
he  be  freed  from  his  ideas  what  a poet  we  should 
have!  Therefore,  let  those  who  have  taken  firsts  at 
Oxford  devote  their  intolerable  leisure  to  preparing 
an  edition  from  which  everything  resembling  an  idea 
shall  be  firmly  excluded.  We  might  then  shut  up 
our  Marlowes  and  our  Beaumonts  and  resume  our 
reading  of  the  bard,  and  these  witless  beings  would 
confer  happiness  on  many,  and  crown  themselves 
with  truly  immortal  bays.  See  the  fellows!  their 
fingers  catch  at  scanty  wisps  of  hair,  the  lamps  are 
burning,  the  long  pens  are  poised,  and  idea  after  idea 
is  hurled  out  of  existence. 

Gustave  Kahn  took  counsel  of  the  past,  and  he  has 
successfully  avoided  everything  that  even  a hostile 
critic  might  be  tempted  to  term  an  idea;  for  this  I 
am  grateful  to  him.  Nor  is  his  volume  a collection 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  199 


of  miscellaneous  verses  bound  together.  He  has 
chosen  a certain  sequence  of  emotions;  the  circum- 
stances out  of  which  these  emotions  have  sprung  are 
given  in  a short  prose  note.  “Les  Palais  Nomades” 
is  therefore  a novel  in  essence;  description  and 
analysis  are  eliminated,  and  only  the  moments  when 
life  grows  lyrical  with  suffering  are  recorded ; 
recorded  in  many  varying  metres  conforming  only 
to  the  play  of  the  emotion,  for,  unlike  many  who, 
having  once  discovered  a tune,  apply  it  promiscuously 
to  every  subject  they  treat,  Kahn  adapts  his  melody 
to  the  emotion  he  is  giving  expression  to,  with  the 
same  propriety  and  grace  as  Nature  distributes  per- 
fume to  her  flowers.  For  an  example  of  magical 
transition  of  tone  I turn  to  Intermede. 

“Chere  apparence  viens  aux  couchants  illumines 
Veux-tu  mieux  des  matins  albes  et  calmes 
Les  soirs  et  les  matins  ont  des  calmes  rosatres 
Les  eaux  ont  des  manteaux  de  cristal  irise 
Et  des  rythmes  de  calmes  palmes 
Et  Pair  evoque  de  calmes  musique  de  patres. 


Yiens  sous  des  tendelets  aux  fleuves  sourianta 
Aux  lilas  palis  des  nuits  d ’Orient 
Aux  glauques  Stendues  a falbalas  d ’argent 
A 1 ’oasis  des  baisers  urgents 
Seulement  vit  le  voile  aux  seuls  Orients. 


Quel  que  soit  le  spectacle  et  quelle  que  soit  la  raine 
Et  quelle  que  soit  la  voix  qui  s’affame  et  brame, 
L’oublie  du  lointain  des  jours  chatouille  et  serre, 
Le  lotos  de  l’oubli  s’est  fan6  dans  mes  serres, 


200  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


Cependant  tu  m’aimais  a jamais? 
Adieu  pour  jamais.  ” 


The  repetitions  of  Edgar  Poe  seem  hard  and  me* 
chanical  after  this,  so  exquisite  and  evanescent  is  the 
rhythm,  and  the  intonations  come  as  sweetly  and  sud- 
denly as  a gust  of  perfume ; it  is  as  the  vibration  of 
a fairy  orchestra,  flute  and  violin  disappearing  in  a 
silver  mist ; but  the  clouds  break,  and  all  the  enchant- 
ment of  a spring  garden  appears  in  a shaft  of  sudden 
sunlight. 

“L’6phem&re  idole,  au  frisson  du  printemps, 

Sentant  des  renouveaux  eclore, 

Le  guepa  de  satins  si  loin  tains  et  d’antan* 

Rose  exiles  des  flores! 

“Le  jar  din  rima  ses  branches  de  lilas; 

Aux  murs,  les  roses  tremieres; 

La  terre  etala,  pour  feter  les  las, 

Des  divans  vert  lumi&re; 

“Des  rires  ailes  peuplerent  le  jar  din; 

Souriants  des  caresses  breves, 

Des  oiseaux  joyeux,  jaunes,  incarnadins 
Vibrerent  aux  ciels  de  reve.  ” 


But  to  the  devil  with  literature,  I am  sick  of  it;y 
who  the  deuce  cares  if  Gustave  Kahn  writes  well  or 
badly.  Yesterday  I met  a chappie  whose  views  of 
life  coincide  with  mine.  “A  ripping  good  dinner,” 
he  says ; “get  a skinful  of  champagne  inside  you,  go 
to  bed  when  it  is  light,  and  get  up  when  you  are 
rested.”  This  seems  to  me  as  concise  as  it  is  admi- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  201 


rable ; indeed  there  is  little  to  add  to  it ...  a note  or 
two  concerning  women  might  come  in,  but  I don’t 
know,  “a  skinful  of  champagne”  implies  everything. 

Each  century  has  its  special  ideal,  the  ideal  of  the 
nineteenth  is  a young  man.  The  seventeenth  century 
is  only  woman — see  the  tapestries,  the  delightful 
goddesses  who  have  discarded  their  hoops  and  heels 
to  appear  in  still  more  delightful  nakedness,  the 
noble  woods,  the  tall  castles,  with  the  hunters  looking 
round;  no  servile  archaeology  chills  the  fancy,  it  is 
but  a delightful  whim ; and  this  treatment  of 
antiquity  is  the  highest  proof  of  the  genius  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  See  the  Fragonards — the  ladies 
in  high-peaked  bodices,  their  little  ankles  showing 
amid  the  snow  of  the  petticoats.  Up  they  go;  you 
can  almost  hear  their  light  false  voices  into  the  sum- 
mer of  the  leaves,  where  Loves  are  garlanded  even 
as  of  roses.  Masks  and  arrows  are  everywhere,  all 
the  machinery  of  light  and  gracious  days.  In  the 
Watteaus  the  note  is  more  pensive;  there  is  satin  and 
sunset,  plausive  gestures  and  reluctance — false  re- 
luctance ; the  guitar  is  tinkling,  and  exquisite  are  the 
notes  in  the  languid  evening;  and  there  is  the  Pier- 
rot, that  marvellous  white  animal,  sensual  and  witty 
and  glad,  the  soul  of  the  century — ankles  and  epi- 
grams everywhere,  for  love  was  not  then  sentimental, 
it  was  false  and  a little  cruel ; see  the  furniture  and 
the  polished  floor,  and  the  tapestries  with  whose  deli- 
cate tints  and  decorations  the  high  hair  blends,  the 
footstool  and  the  heel  and  the  calf  of  the  leg  that  is 
withdrawn,  showing  in  the  shadows  of  the  lace ; look 


202  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


at  the  satin  of  the  bodices,  the  fan  outspread,  the  wigs 
so  adorably  false,  the  knee-breeches,  the  buckles  on 
the  shoes,  how  false ; adorable  little  comedy,  adorably 
mendacious;  and  how  sweet  it  is  to  feast  on  these 
sweet  lies,  it  is  a divine  delight  to  us,  wearied  with 
the  hideous  sincerity  of  newspapers.  Then  it  was 
the  man  who  knelt  at  the  woman’s  feet,  it  was  the 
man  who  pleaded  and  the  woman  who  acceded;  but 
in  our  century  the  place  of  the  man  is  changed,  it  is 
he  who  holds  the  fan,  it  is  he  who  is  besought ; and 
if  one  were  to  dream  of  continuing  the  tradition  of 
Watteau  and  Fragonard  in  the  nineteenth  century,  he 
would  have  to  take  note  of  and  meditate  deeply  and 
profoundly  on  this,  as  he  sought  to  formulate  and 
synthesize  the  erotic  spirit  of  our  age. 

“The  position  of  a young  man  in  the  nineteenth 
century  is  the  most  enviable  that  has  ever  fallen  to 
the  lot  of  any  human  creature.  He  is  the  rare  bird, 
and  is  feted,  flattered,  adored.  The  sweetest  words 
are  addressed  to  him,  the  most  loving  looks  are  poured 
upon  him.  The  young  man  can  do  no  wrong.  Every 
house  is  open  to  him,  and  the  best  of  everything  is 
laid  before  him ; girls  dispute  the  right  to  serve  him ; 
they  come  to  him  with  cake  and  wine,  they  sit  circle- 
wise  and  listen  to  him,  and  when  one  is  fortunate  to 
get  him  alone  she  will  hang  round  his  neck,  she  will 
propose  to  him,  and  will  take  his  refusal  kindly  and 
without  resentment.  They  will  not  let  him  stoop  to 
tie  up  his  shoe  lace,  but  will  rush  and  simultaneously 
claim  the  right  to  attend  on  him.  To  represent  in  a 
novel  a girl  proposing  marriage  to  a man  would  be 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  203 


deemed  unnatural,  but  nothing  is  more  common; 
there  are  few  young  men  who  have  not  received  at 
least  a dozen  offers,  nay,  more;  it  is  characteristic, 
it  has  become  instinctive  for  girls  to  choose,  and  they 
prefer  men  not  to  make  love  to  them;  and  every 
young  man  who  knows  his  business  avoids  making 
advances,  knowing  well  that  it  will  only  put  the 
girl  off. 

In  a society  so  constituted,  what  a delightful  open- 
ing there  is  for  a young  man.  He  would  have  to 
waltz  perfectly,  play  tennis  fairly,  the  latest  novel 
would  suffice  for  literary  attainments ; billiards, 
shooting,  and  hunting,  would  not  come  in  amiss,  for 
he  must  not  be  considered  a useless  being  by  men; 
not  that  women  are  much  influenced  by  the  opinion 
of  men  in  their  choice  of  favourites,  but  the  reflex 
action  of  the  heart,  although  not  so  marked  as  that 
of  the  stomach,  exists  and  must  be  kept  in  view,  be- 
sides a man  who  would  succeed  with  women,  must 
succeed  with  men;  the  real  Lovelace  is  loved  by  all. 
Like  gravitation,  love  draws  all  things.  Our  young 
man  would  have  to  be  five  feet  eleven,  or  six  feet, 
broad  shoulders,  light  brown  hair,  deep  eyes,  soft  and 
suggestive,  broad  shoulders,  a thin  neck,  long  delicate 
hands,  a high  instep.  His  nose  should  be  straight, 
his  face  oval  and  small,  he  must  be  clean  about  the 
hips,  and  his  movements  must  be  naturally  caressing. 
He  comes  into  the  ball-room,  his  shoulders  well  back, 
he  stretches  his  hand  to  the  hostess,  he  looks 
at  her  earnestly  (it  is  characteristic  of  him  to 
think  of  the  hostess  first,  he  is  in  her  house, 


204  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


the  house  is  well-furnished,  and  is  suggestive  of 
excellent  meats  and  wines).  He  can  read  through 
the  slim  woman  whose  black  hair,  a-glitter  with 
diamonds,  contrasts  with  her  white  satin ; an  old  man 
is  talking  to  her,  she  dances  with  him,  and  she  re- 
fused a young  man  a moment  before.  This  is  a bad 
sign ; our  Lovelace  knows  it ; there  is  a stout  woman 
of  thirty-five,  who  is  looking  at  him,  red  satin  bodice, 
doubtful  taste.  He  looks  away ; a little  blonde  woman 
fixes  her  eyes  on  him,  she  looks  as  innocent  as  a child ; 
instinctively  our  Lovelace  turns  to  his  host.  “Who  is 
that  little  blonde  woman  over  there,  the  right  hand 

corner  ?”  he  asks.  “Ah,  that  is  Lady .”  “Will 

you  introduce  me  ?”  “Certainly.”  Lovelace  has  made 
up  his  mind.  Then  there  is  a young  oldish  girl, 
richly  dressed ; “I  hear  her  people  have  a nice  house 
in  a hunting  country,  I will  dance  with  her,  and  take 
the  mother  into  supper,  and,  if  I can  get  a moment, 
will  have  a pleasant  talk  with  the  father  in  the  even- 
ing.” 

In  manner  Lovelace  is  facile  and  easy;  he  never 
says  no,  it  is  always  yes,  ask  him  what  you  will; 
but  he  only  does  what  he  has  made  up  his  mind  it 
is  his  advantage  to  do.  Apparently  he  is  an  embodi- 
ment of  all  that  is  unselfish,  for  he  knows  that  after 
he  has  helped  himself,  it  is  advisable  to  help  some  one 
else,  and  thereby  make  a friend  who,  on  a future  oc- 
casion, will  be  useful  to  him.  Put  a violinist  into  a 
room  filled  with  violins,  and  he  will  try  every  one. 
Lovelace  will  put  each  woman  aside  so  quietly  that 
she  is 'often  only  half  aware  that  she  has  been  put 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  205 


aside.  Her  life  is  broken;  she  is  content  that  it 
should  be  broken.  The  real  genius  for  love  lies  not 
in  getting  into,  but  getting  out  of  love. 


I have  noticed  that  there  are  times  when  every 
second  woman  likes  you.  Is  love,  then,  a magnetism 
which  we  sometimes  possess  and  exercise  uncon- 
sciously, and  sometimes  do  not  possess  ? 


CHAPTER  XII 


AND  now,  hypocritical  reader,  I will  answer 
the  questions  which  have  been  agitating  you 
this  long  while,  which  you  have  asked  at  every  stage 
of  this  long  narrative  of  a sinful  life.  Shake  not 
your  head,  lift  not  your  finger,  exquisitely  hypocrit- 
ical reader ; you  can  deceive  me  in  nothing.  I know 
the  baseness  and  unworthiness  of  your  soul  as  I know 
the  baseness  and  unworthiness  of  my  own.  This  is 
a magical  tete-a-tete,  such  a one  as  will  never  happen 
in  your  life  again;  therefore  I say  let  us  put  off  all 
customary  disguise,  let  us  be  frank:  you  have  been 
angrily  asking,  exquisitely  hypocritical  reader,  why 
you  have  been  forced  to  read  this  record  of  sinful 
life ; in  your  exquisite  hypocrisy,  you  have  said  over 
and  over  again  what  good  purpose  can  it  serve  for  a 
man  to  tell  us  of  his  unworthiness  unless,  indeed,  it  is 
to  show  us  how  he  may  rise,  as  if  on  stepping  stones 
of  his  dead  self,  to  higher  things,  etc.  You  sighed, 
O hypocritical  friend,  and  you  threw  the  magazine 
on  the  wicker  table,  where  such  things  lie,  and  you 
murmured  something  about  leaving  the  world  a little 
better  than  you  found  it,  and  you  went  down  to  din- 
ner and  lost  consciousness  of  the  world  in  the  animal 
enjoyment  of  your  stomach.  I hold  out  my  hand  to 
you,  I embrace  you,  you  are  my  brother,  and  I say, 

206 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  207 


undeceive  yourself,  you  will  leave  the  world  no  better 
than  you  found  it.  The  pig  that  is  being  slaughtered 
as  I write  this  line  will  leave  the  world  better  than 
it  found  it,  but  you  will  leave  only  a putrid  carcase 
fit  for  nothing  but  the  grave.  Look  back  upon  your 
life,  examine  it,  probe  it,  weigh  it,  philosophise  on 
it,  and  then  say,  if  you  dare,  that  it  has  not  been  a 
very  futile  and  foolish  affair.  Soldier,  robber,  priest, 
Atheist,  courtesan,  virgin,  I care  not  what  you  are, 
if  you  have  not  brought  children  into  the  world  to 
suffer  your  life  has  been  as  vain  and  as  harmless  as 
mine  has  been.  I hold  out  my  hand  to  you,  we  are 
brothers;  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I think  myself 
a cut  above  you,  because  I do  not  believe  in  leaving 
the  world  better  than  I found  it ; and  you,  exquisitely 
hypocritical  reader,  think  that  you  are  a cut  above 
me  because  you  say  you  would  leave  the  world  better 
than  you  found  it.  The  one  eternal  and  immutable 
delight  of  life  is  to  think,  for  one  reason  or  another, 
that  we  are  better  than  our  neighbours.  This  is  why 
I wrote  this  book,  and  this  is  why  it  is  affording  you 
so  much  pleasure,  O exquisitely  hypocritical  reader, 
my  friend,  my  brother,  because  it  helps  you  to  the 
belief  that  you  are  not  so  bad  after  all.  Now  to 
resume. 

The  knell  of  my  thirtieth  year  has  sounded,  in 
three  or  four  years  my  youth  will  be  as  a faint  haze 
on  the  sea,  an  illusive  recollection;  so  now  while 
standing  on  the  last  verge  of  the  hill,  I will  look 
back  on  the  valley  I lingered  in.  Do  I regret?  I 
neither  repent  nor  do  I regret;  and  a fool  and  a 


208  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


weakling  I should  be  if  I did.  I know  the  worth 
and  the  rarity  of  more  than  fifteen  years  of  sys- 
tematic enjoyment.  Nature  provided  me  with  as  per- 
fect a digestive  apparatus,  mental  and  physical,  as  she 
ever  turned  out  of  her  workshop;  my  stomach  and 
brain  are  set  in  the  most  perfect  equipoise  possible 
to  conceive,  and  up  and  dowi  they  went  and  still  go 
with  measured  movement,  absorbing  and  assimilating 
all  that  is  poured  into  them  without  friction  or  stop- 
page. This  book  is  a record  of  my  mental  digestions ; 
but  it  would  take  another  series  of  confessions  to  tell 
of  the  dinners  I have  eaten,  the  champagne  I have 
drunk ! and  the  suppers ! seven  dozen  of  oysters,  pate- 
de-foie-gras,  heaps  of  truffles,  salad,  and  then  a walk 
home  in  the  early  moaning,  a few  philosophical  re- 
flections suggested  by  the  appearance  of  a belated 
street-sweeper,  then  sleep,  quiet  and  gentle  sleep. 

I have  had  the  rarest  and  most  delightful  friends. 
Ah,  how  I have  loved  my  friends;  the  rarest  wits 
of  my  generation  were  my  boon  companions;  every- 
thing conspired  to  enable  me  to  gratify  my  body  and 
my  brain;  and  do  you  think  this  would  have  been 
so  if  I had  been  a good  man  ? If  you  do  you  are  a 
fool,  good  intentions  and  bald  greed  go  to  the  wall, 
but  subtle  selfishness  with  a dash  of  unscrupulousness 
pulls  more  plums  out  of  life’s  pie  than  the  seven 
deadly  virtues.  If  you  are  a good  man  you  want  a 
bad  one  to  convert ; if  you  are  a bad  man  you  want 
a bad  one  to  go  out  on  the  spree  with.  And  you,  my 
dear,  my  exquisite  reader,  place  your  hand  upon  your 
heart,  tell  the  truth,  remember  this  is  a magical 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  209 


tete-a-tete  which  will  happen  never  again  in  your  life, 
admit  that  you  feel  just  a little  interested  in  my  wick- 
edness, admit  that  if  you  ever  thought  you  would 
like  to  know  me  that  it  is  because  I know  a good 
deal  that  you  probably  don’t ; admit  that  your  mouth 
waters  when  you  think  of  rich  and  various  pleasures 
that  fell  to  my  share  in  happy,  delightful  Paris; 
admit  that  if  this  book  had  been  an  account  of  the 
pious  books  I had  read,  the  churches  I had  been  to, 
and  the  good  works  I had  done,  that  you  would  not 
have  bought  it  or  borrowed  it.  Hypocritical  reader, 
think,  had  you  had  courage,  health,  and  money  to 
lead  a fast  life,  would  you  not  have  done  so  ? You 
don’t  know,  no  more  do  I;  I have  done  so,  and  I 
regret  nothing  except  that  some  infernal  farmers  and 
miners  will  not  pay  me  what  they  owe  me  and  enable 
me  to  continue  the  life  that  was  once  mine,  and  of 
which  I was  so  bright  an  ornament.  How  I hate  this 
atrocious  Strand  lodging-house,  how  I long  for  my 
apartment  in  Rue  de  la  Tour  des  Dames , with  all  its 
charming  adjuncts,  palms  and  pastels,  my  cat,  my 
python,  my  friends,  blond  hair  and  dark. 

It  was  not  long  before  I wearied  of  journalism; 
the  daily  article  soon  grows  monotonous,  even  when 
you  know  it  will  be  printed,  and  this  I did  not  know ; 
my  prose  was  very  faulty,  and  my  ideas  were  unset- 
tled, I could  not  go  to  the  tap  and  draw  them  off, 
the  liquor  was  still  fermenting;  and  partly  because 
my  articles  were  not  very  easily  disposed  of,  and 
partly  because  I was  weary  of  writing  on  different 
subjects,  I turned  my  attention  to  short  stories.  I 


210  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


wrote  a dozen  with  a view  to  preparing  myself  for  a 
long  novel.  Some  were  printed  in  weekly  news- 
papers, others  were  returned  to  me  from  the  maga- 
zines. But  there  was  a publisher  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  Strand,  who  used  to  frequent  a certain 
bar.  I saw  the  chance,  and  I seized  it.  This  worthy 
man  conducted  his  business  as  he  dressed  himself, 
sloppily;  a dear  kind  soul,  quite  witless  and  quite 
h- less.  From  long  habit  he  would  make  a feeble  at- 
tempt to  drive  a bargain,  but  he  generally  let  him- 
self in : he  was,  in  a word,  a literary  stepping-stone. 
Hundreds  had  made  use  of  him.  If  a fashionable 
author  asked  two  hundred  pounds  for  a book  out  of 
which  he  would  be  certain  to  make  three,  it  was  ten 
to  one  that  he  would  allow  the  chance  to  drift  away 
from  him ; but  after  having  refused  a dozen  times  the 
work  of  a Strand  loafer  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
“treating,”  he  would  say,  “Send  it  in,  my  boy,  send 
it  in,  Fll  see  what  can  be  done  with  it.”  There  was 
a long  counter,  and  the  way  to  be  published  by  Mr. 

B.  was  to  straddle  on  the  counter  and  play  with  a 
black  cat.  There  was  an  Irishman  behind  this  coun- 
ter who,  for  three  pounds  a week,  edited  the  maga- 
zine, read  the  MS.,  looked  after  the  printer  and 
binder,  kept  the  accounts  when  he  had  a spare  mo- 
ment, and  entertained  the  visitors.  I did  not  trouble 
Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Messrs.  Longman  with  polite 
requests  to  look  at  my  MS.,  but  straddled  on  the 
counter,  played  with  the  cat,  joked  with  the  Irish-  j 
man,  was  treated  by  Mr.  B.,  and  in  the  natural  order  j 
of  things  my  stories  went  into  the  magazine,  and  were 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  211 


paid  for.  Strange  were  tlie  ways  of  this  office ; Shake- 
speare might  have  sent  in  prose  and  poetry,  but  he 
would  have  gone  into  the  wastepaper  basket  had  he 
not  previously  straddled.  For  those  who  were  in  the 
swim  this  was  a matter  of  congratulation ; straddling, 
we  would  cry,  “We  want  no  blooming  outsiders  com- 
ing along  interfering  with  our  magazine.  And  you, 
Smith,  you  devil,  you  had  a twenty-page  story  in 
last  month  and  cut  me  out.  O’Flanagan,  do  you  mind 
if  I send  you  in  a couple  of  poems  as  well  as  my 
regular  stuff,  that  will  make  it  all  square  ?”  “I’ll  try 
to  manage  it ; here’s  the  governor.”  And  looking  ex- 
actly like  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Sedley,  Mr.  B.  used  to 
slouch  along,  and  he  would  fall  into  his  leather  arm- 
chair,  the  one  in  which  he  wrote  the  cheques.  The 
last  time  I saw  that  chair  it  was  standing  in  the  street, 
alas ! in  the  hands  of  the  brokers. 

But  conservative  though  we  were  in  matters  con- 
cerning “copy,”  though  all  means  were  taken  to  pro- 
tect ourselves  against  interlopers,  one  who  had  not 
passed  the  preliminary  stage  of  straddling  would 
occasionally  slip  through  our  defences.  I remember 
one  especially.  It  was  a hot  summer’s  day,  we  were 
all  on  the  counter,  our  legs  swinging,  when  an 
enormous  young  man  entered.  He  must  have  been 
six  feet  three  in  height.  He  was  shown  into  Mr.  B.’s 
room,  he  asked  him  to  read  a MS.,  and  he  fled,  look- 
ing very  frightened.  “Wastepaper  basket,  waste- 
paper  basket,”  we  shouted  when  Mr.  B.  handed  us  the 
roll  of  paper.  “What  an  odd-looking  fish  he  is !”  said 
O’Flanagan;  “I  wonder  what  his  MS.  is  like.”  We 


212  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


remonstrated  in  vain,  O’Flanagan  took  the  MS.  home 
to  read,  and  returned  next  morning  convinced  that 
he  had  discovered  an  embryo  Dickens.  The  young 
man  was  asked  to  call,  his  book  was  accepted,  and 
we  adjourned  to  the  bar. 

A few  weeks  afterwards  this  young  man  took 
rooms  in  the  house  next  to  me  on  the  ground  floor. 
He  was  terribly  inflated  with  his  success,  and  was 
clearly  determined  to  take  London  by  storm.  He  had 
been  to  Oxford,  and  to  Heidelberg,  he  drank  beer  and 
smoked  long  pipes,  he  talked  of  nothing  else.  Soon, 
very  soon,  I grew  conscious  that  he  thought  me  a 
simpleton ; he  pooh-poohed  my  belief  in  Naturalism 
and  declined  to  discuss  the  symbolist  question.  He 
curled  his  long  legs  upon  the  rickety  sofa  and  spoke 
of  the  British  public  as  the  “B.  P.,”  and  of  the 
magazine  as  the  “mag.”  There  were  generally  tea- 
things  and  jam-pots  on  the  table.  In  a little  while  he 
brought  a little  creature  about  five  feet  three  to  live 
with  him,  and  when  the  little  creature  and  the  long 
creature  went  out  together,  it  was  like  Don  Quixote 
and  Sancho  Panza  setting  forth  in  quest  of  adven- 
tures in  the  land  of  Strand.  The  little  creature  in- 
dulged in  none  of  the  loud,  rasping  affectation  of 
humour  that  was  so  maddening  in  the  long  creature; 
the  little  creature  was  dry,  hard,  and  sterile,  and 
when  he  did  join  in  the  conversation  it  was  like  an 
empty  nut  between  the  teeth — dusty  and  bitter.  He 
was  supposed  to  be  going  in  for  the  law,  but  the  part 
of  him  to  which  he  drew  our  attention  was  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  He  kept  a 


CONFESSIONS  OF  & YOUNG  MAN  213 


pocket-book,  in  which  he  held  an  account  of  his  read- 
ing. Holding  the  pocket-book  between  finger  and 
thumb,  he  would  say,  “Last  year  I read  ten  plays  by 
Nash,  twelve  by  Peele,  six  by  Greene,  fifteen  by 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  eleven  anonymous  plays, 
— fifty-four  in  all.”  He  neither  praised  nor  blamed, 
he  neither  extolled  nor  criticised;  he  told  you  what 
he  had  read,  and  left  you  to  draw  your  own  con- 
clusions. 

What  the  little  creature  thought  of  the  long  crea- 
ture I never  discovered,  but  with  every  new  hour  I 
became  freshly  sensible  that  they  held  me  in  still 
decreasing  estimation.  This,  I remember,  was  wildly 
irritating  to  me.  I knew  myself  infinitely  superior  to 
them ; I knew  the  long  creature’s  novel  was  worthless ; 
I knew  that  I had  fifty  books  in  me  immeasurably 
better  than  it,  and  savagely  and  sullenly  I desired  to 
trample  upon  them,  to  rub  their  noses  in  their  feeble- 
ness; but  oh,  it  was  I who  was  feeble!  and  full  of 
visions  of  a wider  world  I raged  up  and  down  the 
cold  walls  of  impassable  mental  limitations.  Above 
me  there  was  a barred  window,  and,  but  for  my 
manacles,  I would  have  sprung  at  it  and  torn  it  with 
my  teeth.  Then  passion  was  so  strong  in  me  that  I 
could  scarce  refrain  from  jumping  off  the  counter, 
stamping  my  feet,  and  slapping  my  friends  in  the 
face,  so  tepid  were  their  enthusiasms,  so  thin  did 
their  understanding  appear  to  me.  The  Straddlers 
seemed  inclined  for  a moment  to  take  the  long  crea- 
ture very  seriously,  and  in  the  office  which  I had 


214  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


marked  down  for  my  own  I saw  him  installed  as  a 
genius. 

Fortunately  for  my  life  and  my  sanity,  my  inter- 
ests were,  about  this  time,  attracted  into  other  ways — 
ways  that  led  into  London  life,  and  were  suitable  for 
me  to  tread.  In  a restaurant  where  low-necked 
dresses  and  evening  clothes  crushed  with  loud  ex- 
clamations, where  there  was  ever  an  odour  of  cigarette 
and  brandy  and  soda,  I was  introduced  to  a Jew  of 
whom  I had  heard  much,  a man  who  had  newspapers 
and  race  horses.  The  bright  witty  glances  of  his 
brown  eyes  at  once  prejudiced  me  in  his  favour,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  I knew  that  I had  found  an- 
other friend.  His  house  was  what  was  wanted,  for 
it  was  so  trenchant  in  character,  so  different  to  all 
I knew  of,  that  I was  forced  to  accept  it,  without 
likening  it  to  any  French  memory  and  thereby  weak- 
ening the  impression.  It  was  a house  of  champagne, 
late  hours,  and  evening  clothes,  of  literature  and  art, 
of  passionate  discussions.  So  this  house  was  not  so 
alien  to  me  as  all  else  I had  seen  in  London;  and 
perhaps  the  cosmopolitanism  of  this  charming  Jew, 
his  Hellenism,  in  fact,  was  a sort  of  plank  whereon 
I might  pass  and  enter  again  into  English  life.  I 
found  in  Curzon  Street  another  “Nouvelle  Athenes,” 
a Bohemianism  of  titles  that  went  back  to  the  Con- 
quest, a Bohemianism  of  the  ten  sovereigns  always 
jingling  in  the  trousers  pocket,  of  scrupulous  clean- 
liness, of  hansom  cabs,  of  ladies’  pet  names;  of 
triumphant  champagne,  of  debts,  gaslight*  supper- 
parties,  morning  light,  coaching;  a fabulous  Bohe- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  215 


mianism;  a Bohemianism  of  eternal  hardupishness 
and  eternal  squandering  of  money, — money  that  rose 
at  no  discoverable  well-head  and  flowed  into  a sea 
of  boudoirs  and  restaurants,  a sort  of  whirlpool  of 
sovereigns  in  which  we  were  caught,  and  sent  eddy- 
ing through  music  halls,  bright  shoulders,  tresses  of 
hair,  and  slang;  and  I joined  in  the  adorable  game  of 
Bohemianism  that  was  played  round  and  about  Pic- 
cadilly Circus,  with  Curzon  Street  for  a magnificent 
rallying  point. 

After  dinner  a general  “clear”  was  made  in  the 
direction  of  halls  and  theatres,  a few  friends  would 
drop  in  about  twelve,  and  continue  their  drinking  till 
three  or  four;  but  Saturday  night  was  gala  night — 
at  half-past  eleven  the  lords  drove  up  in  their  han- 
soms, then  a genius  or  two  would  arrive,  and  supper 
and  singing  went  merrily  until  the  chimney  sweeps 
began  to  go  by,  and  we  took  chairs  and  bottles  into 
the  street  and  entered  into  discussion  with  the  police- 
man. Twelve  hours  later  we  struggled  out  of  our 
beds,  and  to  the  sound  of  church  bells  we  commenced 
writing.  The  paper  appeared  on  Tuesday.  Our  host 
sat  in  a small  room  off  the  dining-room  from  which 
he  occasionally  emerged  to  stimulate  oivr  lagging 
pens. 

But  I could  not  learn  to  see  life  paragraphically. 
I longed  to  give  a personal  shape  to  something,  and 
personal  shape  could  not  be  achieved  in  a paragraph 
nor  in  an  article.  True  it  is  that  I longed  for  art,  but 
I longed  also  for  fame,  or  was  it  notoriety?  Both. 
I longed  for  fame,  fame,  brutal  and  glaring,  fame 


216  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


that  leans  to  notoriety.  Out  with  you,  liars  that  you 
are,  tell  the  truth,  say  you  would  sell  the  souls  you 
don’t  believe  in,  or  do  believe  in,  for  notoriety.  I 
have  known  you  attend  funerals  for  the  sake  of  see- 
ing your  miserable  names  in  the  paper.  You,  hypo- 
critical reader,  who  are  now  turning  up  your  eyes 
and  murmuring  “horrid  young  man” — examine  your 
weakly  heart,  and  see  what  divides  us;  I am  not 
ashamed  of  my  appetites,  I proclaim  them,  what  is 
more  I gratify  them ; you’re  silent,  you  refrain,  and 
you  dress  up  natural  sins  in  hideous  garments  of 
shame,  you  would  sell  your  wretched  soul  for  what 
I would  not  give  the  parings  of  my  finger-nails  for 
— paragraphs  in  a society  paper.  I am  ashamed  of 
nothing  I have  done,  especially  my  sins,  and  I boldly 
confess  that  I then  desired  notoriety.  I walked 
along  the  streets  mad;  I turned  upon  myself  like  a 
tiger.  “Am  I going  to  fail  again  as  I have  failed 
before?”  I asked  myself.  “Will  my  novel  prove  as 
abortive  as  my  paintings,  my  poetry,  my  journal- 
ism ?”  I looked  back  upon  my  life, — mediocrity  was 
branded  about  my  life.  “Would  it  be  the  same  to 
the  end  ?”  I asked  myself  a thousand  times  by  day, 
and  a thousand  times  by  night.  We  all  want  noto- 
riety, our  desire  for  notoriety  is  hideous  if  you  will, 
but  it  is  less  hideous  when  it  is  proclaimed  from  a 
brazen  tongue  than  when  it  hides  its  head  in  the 
cant  of  human  humanitarianism.  Humanity  be 
hanged ! Self,  and  after  self  a friend ; the  rest  may 
go  to  the  devil;  and  be  sure  that  when  any  man  is 
more  stupidly  vain  and  outrageously  egotistic  than 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  217 


his  fellows,  he  will  hide  his  hideousness  in  humani- 
tarianism.  Victor  Hugo  was  hideous  with  self,  and 
the  innermost  stench  of  the  humanitarianism  he 
vented  about  him  is  unbearable  to  any  stomach,  not 
excepting  even  Mr.  Swinburne’s,  who  occasionally 
holds  his  nose  with  one  hand  while  he  waves  the 
censer  with  the  other.  Humanity  be  hanged ! Men 
of  inferior  genius,  Victor  Hugo  and  Mr.  Gladstone, 
take  refuge  in  it.  Humanity  is  a pigsty,  where  liars, 
hypocrites,  and  the  obscene  in  spirit  congregate;  it 
has  been  so  since  the  great  Jew  conceived  it,  and  it 
will  be  so  till  the  end.  Far  better  the  blithe  mod- 
ern pagan  in  his  white  tie  and  evening  clothes,  and 
his  facile  philosophy.  He  says,  “I  don’t  care  how 
the  poor  live ; my  only  regret  is  that  they  live  at  all 
and  he  gives  the  beggar  a shilling. 

We  all  want  notoriety;  our  desires  on  this  point, 
as  upon  others,  are  not  noble,  but  the  human  is  very 
despicable  vermin  and  only  tolerable  when  it  tends 
to  the  brute,  and  away  from  the  evangelical.  I will 
tell  you  an  anecdote  which  is  in  itself  an  admirable 
illustration  of  my  craving  for  notoriety;  and  my 
anecdote  will  serve  a double  purpose, — it  will  bring 
me  some  of  the  notoriety  of  which  I am  so  desirous, 
for  you,  dear,  exquisitely  hypocritical  reader,  will  at 
once  cry,  “Shame ! Could  a man  be  so  wicked  as  to 
attempt  to  force  on  a duel,  so  that  he  might  make 
himself  known  through  the  medium  of  a legal  mur- 
der?” You  will  tell  your  friends  of  this  horribly 
unprincipled  young  man,  and  they  will,  of  course, 
instantly  want  to  know  more  about  him. 


218  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


It  was  a gala  night  in  Curzon  Street,  the  lords 
were  driving  up  in  hansoms ; shouts  and  oaths ; some 
seated  on  the  roofs  with  their  legs  swinging  inside; 
the  comics  had  arrived  from  the  halls;  there  were 
ladies,  many  ladies ; choruses  were  going  merrily  in 
the  drawing-room;  one  man  was  attempting  to  kick 
the  chandelier,  another  stood  on  his  head  on  the 
sofa.  There  was  a beautiful  young  lord  there,  that 
sort  of  figure  that  no  woman  can  resist.  There  was 
a delightful  chappie  who  seemed  inclined  to  empty 
the  mustard-pot  down  my  neck ; him  I could  keep  in 
order,  but  the  beautiful  lord  I saw  was  attempting  to 
make  a butt  of  me.  With  his  impertinences  I did 
not  for  a moment  intend  to  put  up ; I did  not  know 
him,  he  was  not  then,  as  he  is  now,  if  he  will  allow 
me  to  say  so,  a friend.  About  three  or  half-past 
the  ladies  retired,  and  the  festivities  continued  with 
unabated  vigour.  We  had  passed  through  various 
stages,  not  of  intoxication,  no  one  was  drunk,  but  of 
jubilation;  we  had  been  jocose  and  rowdy,  we  had 
told  stories  of  all  kinds.  The  young  lord  and  I did 
not  “pull  well  together/’  but  nothing  decidedly  un- 
pleasant occurred  until  someone  proposed  to  drink  to 
the  downfall  of  Gladstone.  The  beautiful  lord  got 
on  his  legs  and  began  a speech.  Politically  it  was 
sound  enough,  but  much  of  it  was  plainly  intended  to 
turn  me  into  ridicule.  I answered  sharply,  working 
gradually  up  crescendo,  until  at  last,  to  bring  matters 
to  a head,  I said, 

“I  don’t  agree  with  you;  the  Land  Act  of  ’81  was 
a necessity.” 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  219 


“Anyone  who  thinks  so  must  be  a fool.” 

“Very  possibly,  but  I don’t  allow  people  to  ad- 
dress such  language  to  me,  and  you  must  be  aware 
that  to  call  anyone  a fool,  sitting  with  you  at  table 
in  the  bouse  of  a friend,  is  the  act  of  a cad.” 

There  was  a lull,  then  a moment  after  be  said, 

“I  only  meant  politically.” 

“And  I only  meant  socially.” 

He  advanced  a step  or  two  and  struck  me  across 
the  face  with  bis  finger  tips;  I took  up  a cham- 
pagne bottle,  and  struck  him  across  the  head  and 
shoulders.  Different  parties  of  revellers  kept  us 
apart,  and  we  walked  up  and  down  on  either  side 
of  the  table  swearing  at  each  other.  Although  I was 
very  wrath,  I had  had  a certain  consciousness  from 
the  first  that  if  I played  my  cards  well  I might 
come  very  well  out  of  the  quarrel;  and  as  I walked 
down  the  street  I determined  to  make  every  ef- 
fort to  force  on  a meeting.  If  the  quarrel  had  been 
with  one  of  the  music  hall  singers  I should  have 
backed  out  of  it,  but  I had  everything  to  gain  by 
pressing  it.  I grasped  the  situation  at  once.  ' All 
the  Liberal  press  would  be  on  my  side,  the  Conser- 
vative press  would  have  nothing  to  say  against  me, 
no  woman  in  it  and  a duel  with  a lord  in  it  would 
be  carrion  for  the  society  papers.  But  the  danger  ? 
To  the  fear  of  death  I do  not  think  I was  ever  sus- 
ceptible. I should  have  been  afraid  of  a row  with  a 
music  hall  singer,  because  I should  have  had  much 
to  lose  by  rowing  with  him,  but  as  matters  stood  I 
had  too  much  to  gain  to  consider  the  possibilities  of 


220  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


danger.  Besides  there  was  no  need  to  consider.  I 
knew  very  well  there  was  no  reality  in  it.  I had 
broken  sixteen  plates  consecutively  at  the  order  to 
fire  dozens  of  times;  and  yet  it  was  three  to  one 
against  my  shooting  a man  at  twenty  pacds ; so  it  was 
ten  thousand  to  one  against  a man,  who  had  prob- 
ably only  fired  off  a revolver  half-a-dozen  times  in 
a back  yard,  hitting  me.  In  the  gallery  you  are 
firing  at  white  on  black,  on  the  ground  you  are  firing 
at  black  upon  a neutral  tint,  a very  different  matter. 
In  the  gallery  there  is  nothing  to  disturb  you ; there  is 
not  a man  opposite  you  with  a pistol  in  his  hand.  In 
the  gallery  you  are  calm  and  collected,  you  have  risen 
at  your  ordinary  hour,  you  are  returning  from  a stroll 
through  the  sunlight ; on  the  ground  your  nerves  are 
altered  by  unusual  rising,  by  cold  air,  by  long  ex- 
pectation. It  was  three  to  one  against  my  killing 
him,  it  was  a hundred  to  one  against  his  killing  me. 
So  I calculated  the  chances,  so  much  as  I took  the 
trouble  to  calculate  the  chances,  but  in  truth  I thought 
very  little  of  them ; when  I want  to  do  anything  I do 
not  fear  anything,  and  I sincerely  wanted  to  shoot 
this  young  man.  I did  not  go  to  bed  at  once,  but 
sat  in  the  armchair  thinking.  Presently  a cab  came 
rattling  up  to  the  door,  and  one  of  the  revellers  came 
upstairs.  He  told  me  that  everything  had  been  ar- 
ranged;  I told  him  that  I was  not  in  the  habit  of 
allowing  others  to  arrange  my  affairs  for  me,  and 
went  to  bed.  One  thing,  and  only  one  thing  puzzled 
me,  who  was  I to  ask  to  be  my  second?  My  old 
friends  were  scattered,  they  had  disappeared;  and 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  221 


among  my  new  acquaintances  I could  not  think  of 
one  that  would  do.  None  of  the  Straddlers  would 
do,  that  was  certain;  I wanted  some  one  that  could 
be  depended  upon,  and  whose  social  position  was 
above  question.  Among  my  old  friends  I could  think 
of  some  half-dozen  that  would  suit  me  perfectly,  but 
where  were  they  ? Ten  years’  absence  scatters  friends 
as  October  scatters  swallows.  At  last  my  thoughts 
fixed  themselves  on  one  man.  I took  a hansom  and 
drove  to  his  house.  I found  him  packing  up,  prepar- 
ing to  go  abroad.  This  was  not  fortunate.  I took  a 
seat  on  the  edge  of  the  dining-room  table,  and  told  him 
I wanted  him  to  act  for  me  in  an  affair  of  honour. 
I told  him  the  story  in  outline.  “I  suppose,”  he 
said,  “it  was  about  one  or  two  in  the  morning  V9 

“Later  than  that,”  I said ; “it  was  about  seven.” 

“My  dear  fellow,  he  struck  you,  and  not  very  hard, 
I should  imagine;  you  hit  him  with  a champagne 
bottle,  and  now  you  want  to  have  him  out.  I don’t 
mind  acting  as  intermediary,  and  settling  the  affair 
for  you ; he  will  no  doubt  regret  he  struck  you,  and 
you  will  regret  you  struck  him;  but  really  I cannot 
act  for  you,  that  is  to  say,  if  you  are  determined 
to  force  on  a meeting.  Just  think;  supposing  you 
were  to  shoot  him,  a man  who  has  really  done  you 
no  wrong.” 

“My  dear , I did  not  come  here  to  listen  to 

moral  reflections;  if  you  don’t  like  to  act  for  me, 
sav  so.” 

o 

I telegraphed  to  Warwickshire  to  an  old  friend: — 
“Can  I count  on  you  to  act  for  me  in  an  affair  of 


222  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


honour  ?”  Two  or  three  hours  after  the  reply  came, 
“Come  down  here  and  stay  with  me  for  a few  days, 
we’ll  talk  it  over.”  I ground  my  teeth;  what  was 
to  be  done  ? I must  wire  to  Marshall  and  ask  him  to 
come  over;  English  people  evidently  will  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  serious  duelling.  “Of  all  importance. 
Come  over  at  once  and  act  for  me  in  an  affair  of 
honour.  Bring  the  count  with  you;  leave  him  at 

Boulogne;  he  knows  the  colonel  of  the .”  The 

next  day  I received  the  following : “Am  burying  my 
father;  so  soon  as  he  is  underground  will  come.” 
Was  there  ever  such  luck  ? . . . He  won’t  be  here  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  week.  These  things  demand  the 
utmost  promptitude.  Three  or  four  days  afterwards 
dreadful  Emma  told  me  a gentleman  was  upstairs 
taking  a bath.  “Holloa,  Marshall,  how  are  you? 
Had  a good  crossing  ? Awful  good  of  you  to 
come.  . . . The  poor  old  gentleman  went  off  quite 
suddenly,  I suppose?” 

“Yes;  found  dead  in  his  bed.  He  must  have 
known  he  was  dying,  for  he  lay  quite  straight  as  the 
dead  lie,  his  hands  by  his  side  . . . wonderful  pres- 
ence of  mind.” 

“He  left  no  money  ?” 

“Not  a penny;  but  I could  manage  it  all  right. 
Since  my  success  at  the  Salon,  I have  been  able  to 
sell  my  things.  I am  only  beginning  to  find  out 
now  what  a success  that  picture  was.  Je  f assure,  je 
fais  Vecole”  . , . 

“Tu  crois  ga  ...  on  fait  Vecole  apres  vingt  arts 
de  travail ” 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  223 


“Mon  ami , je  f assure,  j’ai  un  public  qui  me  suit  ” 

“Mon  ami,  veux-tu  que  je  te  dis  ce  que  tu  a fait ; 
tu  a fait  encore  une  vulgarization,  une  jolie  vulgari- 
zation, je  veux  bien,  de  la  note  inventee  par  Millet ; 
tu  a ajoute  la  note  claire  inventee  par  Manet , enfin 
tu  suis  avec  talent  le  mouvement  modeme,  voild  tout” 

“Parlons  d’ autre  chose:  sur  la  question  d’art  on 
ne  s’entend  jamais 

When  we  were  excited  Marshall  and  I always 
dropped  into  French. 

“And  now  tell  me,”  he  said,  “about  this  duel.” 

I could  not  bring  myself  to  admit,  even  to  Mar- 
shall, that  I was  willing  to  shoot  a man  for  the  sake, 
of  the  notoriety  it  would  bring  me,  not  because  I 
feared  in  him  any  revolt  of  conscience,  but  because  I 
dreaded  his  sneers ; he  was  known  to  all  Paris,  I was 
an  obscure  something,  living  in  an  obscure  lodging 
in  London.  Had  Marshall  suspected  the  truth  he 
would  have  said  pityingly,  “My  dear  Dayne,  how 
can  you  be  so  foolish  ? why  will  you  not  be  contented 
to  live?”  etc.  . . . Such  homilies  would  have  been 
maddening;  he  was  successful,  I was  not;  I knew 
there  was  not  much  in  him,  un  feu  de  paille , no  more, 
but  what  would  I not  have  done  and  given  for  that 
feu  de  paille ? So  I was  obliged  to  conceal  my  real 
motives  for  desiring  a duel,  and  I spoke  strenuously 
of  the  gravity  of  the  insult  and  the  necessity  of  retri- 
bution. But  Marshall  was  obdurate.  “Insult?”  he 
said.  “He  hit  you  with  his  hand,  you  hit  him  with 
the  champagne  bottle;  you  can’t  have  him  out  after 
that,  there  is  nothing  to  avenge,  you  wiped  out  the 


224  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


insult  yourself ; if  you  had  not  struck  him  with  the 
champagne  bottle  the  case  would  be  different.” 

We  went  out  to  dine,  we  went  to  the  theatre,  and 
after  the  theatre  we  went  home  and  aestheticised  till 
three  in  the  morning.  I spoke  no  more  of  the  duel, 
I was  sick  of  it;  luck,  I saw,  was  against  me,  and 
I let  Marshall  have  his  way.  He  showed  his  usual 
tact,  a letter  was  drawn  up  in  which  my  friend  with- 
drew the  blow  of  his  hand,  I withdrew  the  blow  of 
the  bottle,  and  the  letter  was  signed  by  Marshall  and 
two  other  gentlemen. 

Hypocritical  reader,  you  draw  your  purity  gar- 
ments round  you,  you  say,  “How  very  base;”  but  I 
say  unto  you  remember  how  often  you  have  longed,  if 
you  are  a soldier  in  her  Majesty’s  army,  for  war, — 
war  that  would  bring  every  form  of  sorrow  to  a mil- 
lion fellow-creatures,  and  you  longed  for  all  this  to 
happen,  because  it  might  bring  your  name  into  the 
Gazette.  Hypocritical  reader,  think  not  too  hardly 
of  me;  hypocritical  reader,  think  what  you  like  of 
me,  your  hypocrisy  will  alter  nothing;  in  telling  you 
of  my  vices  I am  only  telling  you  of  your  own ; hypo- 
critical reader,  in  showing  you  my  soul  I am  showing 
you  your  own ; hypocritical  reader,  exquisitely  hypo- 
critical reader,  you  are  my  brother,  I salute  you. 

Day  passed  over  day:  I lived  in  that  horrible 
lodging ; I continued  to  labour  at  my  novel ; it  seemed 
an  impossible  task — defeat  glared  at  me  from  every 
comer  of  that  frouzy  room.  My  English  was  so  bad, 
so  thin, — stupid  colloquialisms  out  of  joint  with 
French  idiom.  I learnt  unusual  words  and  stuck 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  225 


them  up  here  and  there ; they  did  not  mend  the  style. 
Self-reliance  had  been  lost  in  past  failures;  I was 
weighed  down  on  every  side,  but  I struggled  to  bring 
the  book  somehow  to  a close.  Nothing  mattered  to 
me,  but  this  one  thing.  To  put  an  end  to  the  land- 
lady’s cheating,  and  to  bind  myself  to  remain  at  home, 
I entered  into  an  arrangement  with  her  that  she  was 
to  supply  me  with  board  and  lodgings  for  three 
pounds  a week,  and  henceforth  resisting  all  Curzon 
Street  temptations,  I trudge  home  through  November 
fogs,  to  eat  a chop  in  a frouzy  lodging-house.  I 
studied  the  horrible  servant  as  one  might  an  insect 
under  a microscope.  “What  an  admirable  book  she 
would  make,  but  what  will  the  end  be  ? if  I only  knew 
the  end !”  I had  more  and  more  difficulty  in  keeping 
the  fat  landlady  at  arm’s  length,  and  the  nasty  child 
was  well  beaten  one  day  for  lingering  about  my  door. 
I saw  poor  Miss  L.  nightly,  on  the  stairs  of  this 
infamous  house,  and  I never  wearied  of  talking  to  her 
of  her  hopes  and  ambitions,  of  the  young  man  she 
admired.  She  used  to  ask  me  about  my  novel. 

Poor  Miss  L. ! Where  is  she  ? I do  not  know,  but 
I shall  not  forget  the  time  when  I used  to  listen  for 
her  footstep  on  the  midnight  stairs.  Often  I was 
too  despondent,  when  my  troubles  lay  too  heavily  and 
darkly  upon  me,  I let  her  go  up  to  her  garret  without 
a word.  Despondent  days  and  nights  when  I cried, 
Shall  I never  pass  from  this  lodging  ? shall  I never  be 
a light  in  that  London,  long,  low,  misshapen,  that 
dark  monumental  stream  flowing  through  the  lean 
bridges;  and  what  if  I were  a light  in  this  umber- 


226  CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN 


coloured  mass, — shadows  falling,  barges  moored  mid- 
way in  a monumental  stream?  Happiness  abides 
only  in  the  natural  affections — in  a home  and  a sweet 
wife.  Would  she  whom  I saw  to-night  marry  me? 
How  sweet  she  was  in  her  simple  naturalness,  the 
joys  she  has  known  have  been  slight  and  pure,  not 
violent  and  complex  as  mine.  Ah,  she  is  not  for 
me,  I am  not  fit  for  her,  I am  too  sullied  for  her 
lips.  . . . Were  I to  win  her  could  I be  dutiful, 
true?  . . . 

“ Young  men,  young  men  whom  I love,  dear  ones 
who  have  rejoiced  with  me,  not  the  least  of  our 
pleasures  is  the  virtuous  woman ; after  excesses  there 
is  reaction,  all  things  are  good  in  nature,  and  they 
are  foolish  young  men  who  think  that  sin  alone  should 
be  sought  for.  The  feast  is  over  for  me,  I have  eaten 
and  drunk ; I yield  my  place,  do  you  eat  and  drink 
as  I have ; do  you  be  young  as  I was.  I have  written 
it ! The  word  is  not  worth  erasure,  if  it  is  not  true 
to-day  it  will  be  in  two  years  hence ; farewell ! I yield 
my  place,  do  you  be  young  as  I was,  do  you  love 
youth  as  I did ; remember  you  are  the  most  interest- 
ing beings  under  heaven,  for  you  all  sacrifices  will 
be  made,  you  will  be  feted  and  adored  upon  the  con- 
dition of  remaining  young  men.  The  feast  is  over 
for  me,  I yield  my  place,  but  I will  not  make  this 
leavetaking  more  sorrowful  than  it  is  already  by 
afflicting  you  with  advice  and  instruction  how  to  ob- 
tain what  I have  obtained.  I have  spoken  bitterly 
against  education,  I will  not  strive  to  educate  you, 
you  will  educate  yourselves.  Dear  ones,  dear  ones, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN  227 


the  world  is  your  pleasure,  you  can  use  it  at  your  will. 
Dear  ones,  I see  you  all  about  me  still,  I yield  my 
place ; but  one  more  glass  I will  drink  with  you ; and 
while  drinking  I would  say  my  last  word — were  it 
possible  I would  be  remembered  by  you  as  a young 
man : but  I know  too  well  that  the  young  never  realise 
that  the  old  were  not  bom  old.  Farewell.” 

I shivered;  the  cold  air  of  morning  blew  in  my 
face,  I closed  the  window,  and  sitting  at  the  table, 
haggard  and  overworn,  I continued  my  novel. 


THE  END* 


9 ^ 


